


Cobwebs

by RittaPokie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: AU - Evil Characters, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Kink, Bren being groomed to take over the Volstruckers, Honeypot, Ikithon emotionally and mentally abuses his students, Ikithon is in general a huge piece of shit, OC newbie volstruckers, Other, Rimming, Rough Sex, Tail Kink, Unhappy Ending, but it's kinda ambiguous, handjobs, mentions of past blumentrio, mentions of the clays, modified memories, solo masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RittaPokie/pseuds/RittaPokie
Summary: This is set in the same time frame as the start of the mighty nein adventures BUT:Bren never broke and never left the assemblyLucien survived the attempt to botch his ritual and kept his memoryWarning: this is not a nice fic. Don't go into this thinking that this is going to be nice. I haven't fully settled on an ending, but there's a good chance that it won't be a happy one. These are not nice characters. Both Lucien and Bren are evil or, at the very least, don't bat an eye at evil. This will not be a healthy relationship (consensual but not healthy). If you are looking for joy and happiness, this is not the fic for you.Update: I settled on an ending and it's not not happy.
Relationships: Bren Aldric Ermendrud/Lucien
Comments: 18
Kudos: 44





	1. Cat and Mouse

Bren was sent to Shady Creek Run to discover the purpose of the Tomb Takers, and their connection to Vess Derogna. They’ve caused quite a stir around Shady Creek Run, and are apparently a formidable group. Their leader is known as hard to miss. He is a lavender tiefling with a noticeable arrogance about him, but Bren can’t attest to that, because he hasn’t seen him yet.

He has been making himself useful to Ophelia Mardoon in the meanwhile. Her ties and dealings with the Myriad are of less interest, but interest nonetheless. Her attraction to him makes for a good cover. He would prefer to be doing more than flirting and identifying magical items, but until his main task comes out of the cursed woods where he can get a good look at them - it’s what he must do.

It’s three long, dull weeks before the Tomb Takers reappear in Shady Creek proper, covered head to toe in mud and dried blood. The tabaxi’s fur is matted with it, but the leader seems unphased, and more blood-soaked than the rest. Bren sits, reading over a missive he is to send to his mentor - he isn’t worried about anyone understanding the cypher - at a small table in the back of the only decent tavern in town.

“We can’t exactly afford this,” the Tabaxi mutters to her leader.

“We can,” the tiefling assures her. “Don’t worry so much.”

They go up to rooms and the tiefling comes back alone, cleaned up as much as he could be. Bren watches him from the corners of his eyes, but then has to look at him directly when he takes a seat at the adjacent table. The tiefling doesn’t look at him, but speaks.

“A new face,” he says. “What are you running from?”

A glass of wine is delivered before Bren can answer, and he waits until they have a semblance of privacy before he replies. “What makes you think I am running _from_ something?”

“Cute,” the tiefling says. “Are you looking for work?”

“No,” Bren says.

“A shame, I could think of a few things,” the tiefling says.

Bren huffs a laugh, “Is that why you came over?”

The tiefling turns to face him, straddling his chair. “You got a problem with that?”

Bren feels uneasy being offered an in like this on a silver platter. It could be a trap. He folds the missive and tucks it into his coat pocket. 

“A charmer, I see,” Bren says, rolling his eyes and snapping his fingers to order another drink. An ale, on the weaker side. He feels that he will need his wits about him with this one.

“Lucien,” he says, holding out his hand for Bren to shake. He takes it, but puts on a show of hesitation. He doesn’t offer his name in return, and he sees a glint of _something_ in Lucien’s eyes.

He eyes the tiefling from top to bottom, dragging his gaze lazily to disguise his seeking information as mere attraction, and leans back in his chair.

“What brings you here, so covered in gore?” Bren asks.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” Lucien says, “but the forest is cursed. A lot of things out there that want to kill you.”

“But you had no issues with them,” Bren says.

“More that I was their problem,” Lucien says.

 _Cocksure_ , Bren thinks, _I can work with that_.

The tabaxi appears at the bottom of the stairs and clicks her tongue to get Lucien’s attention, which she does. The tiefling sighs and stands, pushing his chair back in with a heel. He downs the last of his wine. 

“Duty calls,” he says. “It was a pleasure meeting you…” he fishes for Bren’s name once again, but he decides to let the tiefling vie for him.

Bren only smirks in response, pulling the missive back out and shaking it open to read over again, turning his attention to it instead. He doesn’t offer a goodbye, either. Simply lets Lucien walk away, only to lock their gazes when Lucien turns to walk up the stairs.

Ophelia Mardoon had been easy enough to entice, but this one… despite his obvious interest, he seems like a challenge. Danger rises off of him like smoke. Bren knows he must play his cards carefully here.

———

The scattershot of stars fades above the canopy cloak of the Savalier Wood, Lucien’s footfalls growing more precise and quiet as they move into the dark. Bren trails him, invisible and silent as a mouse. The other Tomb Takers had left earlier in the day, without Lucien, the tabaxi was reluctant to part with him.

He knows that they must have a base set up out in the woods, if they’re leaving separately, and he has yet to see them. The tavern was a treat, evidenced by the tabaxi’s concern that they couldn’t afford it. Bren hasn’t seen them in the cheaper taverns either, so they must be sleeping elsewhere. He imagines it might be a bare bones operation, leaving them forced to come into town to get a hot bath.

Lucien diverts from the path suddenly, his steps brushing in the undergrowth as he disappears into the forest, but then, silence. Too soon, Bren thinks. He stops, and he waits, but Lucien doesn’t return to the path. His spell is running short, and he can’t risk being seen, if he is correct, and Lucien has stopped to watch his tracks. So, he turns and goes back the way he came. He can follow this path in exacts again later, when he wouldn’t be walking into a den of lions.

———

Lucien can’t explain to another person what made him stop and jump into the treeline. It’s hard to explain many things he feels. He just _knows_ that someone was following him. They were unseen, silent, and doing everything correctly, but he knows anyway. He’s certain that Derogna’s slip with him hadn’t been an accident, and he’s sure that it won’t be the last of its kind. You don’t stop trying to kill someone because you failed one time.

He’s not about to trust anyone else from the Assembly either. They are all part of a cesspool of scheming liars, all trying to overtake each other, and willing to do anything for a scrap of power. A pack of stray dogs, fighting to the death over anything like it’s the last bone. It doesn’t make a difference that they do it in silence.

Lucien waits in the dark for thirty minutes, eyeing the road pathway with caution, before he continues on to his hideout.

———

Bren sees the Tomb Takers again at the beginning of the next week. He had just ducked under an awning to wait out the sudden flash of rain when Tomb Taker boots hit the road into town. The rest of the group had scattered into a nearby pub, but Lucien has stopped in the muddy street. He tosses his pack and armor under a pile of debris and takes time to rinse the blood from his arms, chest, and neck in the deluge. 

Bren notes that the bloodstains on his clothes and body are almost identical to the ones he had before. He also notices the way the white cotton of the shirt clings to the tiefling’s form as it gets soaked. Lucien runs his fingers through his hair, shaking it out, his head upturned towards the dark clouded sky. When he stands neutral again and wipes the rainwater from his eyes, they catch on Bren’s, and smugness spreads slowly across his face.

Bren closes his mouth, suddenly realizing it was hanging open, and swallows thickly. Lucien smirks, and he unties the laces on his shirt all the way to his navel, and rinses the blood off his chest further down as well. He is covered in scars, they are criss-crossed over his torso like ever more lacing. Bren follows the trail of the tiefling’s fingers and tries to ignore the heat rising in his own body.

 _Oh_ , Bren thinks, _this is bad_.

Lucien winks at him, retrieves his pack and armor, and heads into the tavern with the rest of his group. Bren breathes out slowly, and trudges through the rain back to the room he has where he met Lucien the first time.

He goes up to his room without a word to the innkeeper and shucks his wet clothes off onto the floor. He feels a bit betrayed by his own body, if he’s honest. He is supposed to be luring Lucien, not the other way around. Frustrated, he falls backwards onto his bed.

The thought of Lucien closing that distance runs unbidden through his mind. Bren imagines himself shoved against the side of a building by the sopping wet tiefling, his fangs like knives against his throat. His cock throbs at the mere thought, and he knows he’ll have to take care of this. Taking his erection in hand, he thinks that the fact that Lucien doesn’t have any idea what he’s done to Bren should provide him comfort, but it doesn’t. It twists desire low in his belly, and he brings his other hand up to bite between his index finger and thumb to stifle the moan that escapes him as he strokes himself.

His eyes fall closed as he imagines Lucien’s hand, cold from the rain, sliding into his trousers. The talons would scrape his skin on their way down, and he wouldn’t be gentle. No, he would be rough and focused, intent on bringing Bren to completion just as fast as possible, so that he could brag about it. He flinches, whimpering from the burn of unslicked friction against his cock, but speeds his movements anyway. His hips jerk and he grunts as he finishes, tasting blood in his mouth as he bites down harder on his hand.

He relaxes onto the bed, panting and coated in a thin sheen of sweat and drying rain. He holds his now injured hand up to look at it, and then squeezes a fist hard to splatter a few drops of blood onto the sheets.

Now that rationality has returned to him, he knows that he should have followed Lucien into the tavern. It may well be weeks or more before he sees the tiefling again, and he is here to gather information on _Lucien_ , specifically. 

“Dangerous, indeed,” he says aloud. The excitement of that fact stutters his heart. He will have to be very, _very_ careful with this one.


	2. Yes or No

Bren receives a return for the missive he sent the morning after his slip. Taking the paper turns his blood to ice, though he knows that Master Ikithon has no way of knowing what has happened. With Vess Derogna involved, Master Ikithon had saw fit to provide him with an Amulet Against Proof of Detection and Location. It sets him apart from the rest of his peers. It is a promotion, and he takes that very seriously. The fact that Ikithon informs him on the progress of the newest recruits also gives him reason to suspect that he is being groomed to take over the process that created him.

Bren commits the missive to his memory, and then quickly burns the evidence that it ever existed. Only one inn in Shady Creek Run offers a fireplace in each room, and Bren didn’t have to ask to be afforded it. After all, he is his mentor’s favorite. To train, and to torment. Bren stares into the crackling flames, listening to them pop, and finds himself mesmerized for a long moment.

He holds his hand to the heat of it until the skin is red and tingling, and flexes to look at the bite mark that has scabbed over. It is good to have the reminder of his stumbling, even if he doesn’t need it. He bandages it and walks down the stairs to get breakfast.

He almost allows himself to stop at the bottom of the stairs when he sees his quarry. He forces himself to continue as normal. He orders his food, waits for it at the bar, and then seats himself at the table with Lucien. He takes a bite of his bacon before even bothering to speak to the tiefling, who has his chin propped on his hands.

“What brings you back here, Lucien?” he asks.

“You,” Lucien says frankly. Bren nods, as if he had known that already, and continues eating.

“I am a curiosity to you,” Bren says, “ja?”

“What’s your deal?” Lucien asks. His tail is curled around his chair leg, the tip flicking idly. It looks almost as if his control over it is limited, but Bren doesn’t focus on this. His goal isn’t to learn about tiefling anatomy.

“I am here to work,” Bren says honestly. “I have a goal.”

Lucien leans back, cocking his head to one side. “Vague,” he says.

“Your question was vague,” Bren counters. “I have answered your question, so you will answer mine. What is _your_ deal, Lucien?” he repeats the tiefling’s language, though it seems a bit clunky from him.

“I have a benefactor,” Lucien admits. “At the moment, I live by their whim.”

Bren knows this. Vess Derogna has the Tomb Takers at her heel. “And I, as well,” Bren says.

Lucien lowers his voice to a purr. “Why didn’t you follow me yesterday?” he asks. “Since we’re asking questions.”

“What gave you the impression that I wanted-” Bren is interrupted by Lucien’s finger curling under his chin to gently shut his mouth. He is reminded of his mouth hanging agape like a drooling lecher the day before, as he watched Lucien bathe in the rain.

“A lucky guess,” Lucien says. He pulls his hand away and crosses his arms.

“Perhaps I was surprised by your choice to strip and bathe in public,” Bren argues.

“What happened to your hand?” Lucien asks, changing the subject suddenly, pointing to Bren’s bandaged hand.

Without thinking, Bren clenches his injured hand into a fist and hides it beneath the table. “A burn,” Bren says, “I was careless lighting the fire.”

“Are you often careless?”

“You do not understand the game of a question for a question,” Bren says.

Lucien chuckles. “Well, I’ve never been very good with rules,” he admits. “I left a lot behind to get away from them.”

“I can imagine,” he says. “You are cocky.”

Lucien finds that amusing, and shakes his head. He stands, and as he goes, he puts his hand on Bren’s shoulder and leans down to whisper into Bren’s ear. “You wanna fuck me so bad, it makes you look stupid,” he says, and the venomous edge to his tone sends a shiver down Bren’s spine. 

Lucien stands up straighter and walks away, his tail flicking behind him. Bren has a split second urge to grab it as he goes, but restrains himself.

———

Bren waits a few moments, feeling the seconds tick by like they’re coated in syrup, before he gets up and follows after Lucien. He has a basic idea of which direction the tiefling is headed, and hopes that he is alone again. For the second time, in the same place, Lucien diverts from the path into the treeline. Here, Bren makes his second mistake.

Bren’s feet are swept out from under him almost as soon as he steps off of the path, and his knee jerk reaction is to cast _mage armor_ on himself. He flips onto his back and kicks Lucien’s shin as soon as he sees him, bringing the tiefling down onto one knee with a yelp. He pounces and the two scuffle, rolling in the dirt and moss as each tries to gain the advantage.

“A spell caster, huh?” Lucien grits out from under the redhead, pushing at Bren’s arm pressed against his throat. “No wonder Ophelia pays you so well.”

Lucien knees Bren in the stomach, unbalancing him enough to swap them again. He holds Bren’s wrists against the ground and straddles the wizard. “Or does she just enjoy your cock, I heard she has a thing for gingers,” Lucien says. There’s a sense of sick amusement in his expression.

“Why, are you jealous?” Bren asks as a counter.

Bren uses Lucien’s scoff of derisive laughter as a moment to break free, pushing the tiefling off of him. He stands and waves his hands in an arcane gesture, casting _hold person_ to give him time to catch his breath. Wrestling isn’t exactly Bren’s specialty.

Bren sits on top of the tiefling, and squeezes his chin and cheeks in his hand. “ _You_ ,” Bren pants out, “are an annoying bastard.”

Lucien nods in agreement, but his seeming admission of defeat doesn’t reach his eyes. Bren realizes why a second too late, when he is once again spun over in the dirt. He finds himself face down in the moss and thicket that holds this forest hostage, his arms pinned behind his back, and Lucien’s full weight bearing down on top of him.

Lucien leans down, and his breath is flame-hot against Bren’s neck. It draws a knot of desire in Bren and he squirms, but he is completely at the other’s mercy. 

“Looks like I win this one,” Lucien says, his voice dripping like honey on a hot summer day.

Bren has one last trick up his sleeve though, and grinds his ass back into Lucien, and he can feel his answering excitement against him. “Isn’t this a surprise,” Lucien says.

Bren flexes his fingers, which are starting to tingle in the tight hold. “Release me, and perhaps I might surprise you again,” he says.

“Or kill me,” Lucien says, “but I promise you, honey, that’s not gonna work.”

Bren shifts under the tiefling again, and loosens his grasp enough to grab his erection through the front of his pants. Lucien sucks in a breath above him, and shoves his head down into the dirt, tightens the grip on his wrists until Bren is sure his hands are turning purple.

“Tell me your name, and I’ll let you go,” Lucien says.

“No,” Bren spits against the dirt.

The sharp edge of a knife blade touches the skin of his throat, “or I can end this right now.”

It’s Bren’s turn to laugh. “Do you think this scares me?”

“I think telling me your name scares you,” Lucien growls against his ear, “I think you’re afraid I’ll recognize it, _wizard_.”

Bren manages to wrestle one of his arms free, and casts _thunderwave_ to get the tiefling off of him. The sound cracks through the silent forest like an explosion, and Lucien’s blade swipes against his throat as he is thrown back. Bren reaches up to feel for the cut, but finds it to be superficial. He turns to see Lucien standing, grimacing, his eyes wild with frenzy, and he jumps to his feet as well.

They stand three feet apart, each waiting for the other to make a move. Bren isn’t sure what the correct move is here. He feels that the situation has spun out of control, and that he is dangerously close to losing both his cover and his life. The only last ditch effort that he can think of to preserve himself is to tell the truth, and it’s just mad enough of a plan to work.

“Do you think of the Assembly as a cohesive unit?” Bren asks. “That they are not all vying for the ruin and death of their peers? We have a common enemy in Vess Derogna.”

The standoff continues for only a second longer before Lucien’s demeanor changes like the wind. He laughs, and then puts his blade away. Bren is left confused and on a razor’s edge.

“Was that so difficult?” Lucien asks through his amusement.

“Now,” Lucien says, and he places a hand on Bren’s chest, shoving him backwards. “ _Bren_ ,” he says, and another shove, “ _Aldric_ ,” another shove, and Bren feels his back hit against the trunk of a tree, “ _Ermendrud_.”

Bren’s heart hammers beneath the tiefling’s touch, and he feels split open raw. He doesn’t understand how this went so wrong for him. He doesn’t understand how he ended up with his target calling him by his full name while he is painfully hard and covered in dirt and mud.

Lucien steps in close to him, and brings his knee up, grinding it into Bren’s groin. There’s pleasure, but there’s also a biting edge of pain, and it takes every ounce of willpower that Bren has not to melt into the touch. His hand had obviously not solved the problem yesterday.

“Do you want to fuck me, yes or no?” Lucien asks, and he sounds a bit impatient, his eyes on Bren’s, his voice low.


	3. Don't Lie To Me

Bren finds himself nodding before he can really stop to think of the consequences. He has never been so careless in his life as he has been for the past week. Lucien drives every bit of sense from his mind. How could he have anticipated that?

“Yes,” Bren says.

Lucien drops to his knees in an instant, and Bren swears the thud of his knees on the ground syncs with a pounding beat of his heart. Lucien splays his fingers on either side of the tent in Bren’s pants, and Bren barely breathes. He finds not a hint of softness in Lucien’s eyes as the other tugs the ties of his pants and pulls them down around his knees.

Lucien breaks the eye contact for a second to take in the vista he’s made. “Ophelia has a point,” he says, and he kisses the shaft of Bren’s cock, “about redheads.” He takes Bren in hand, and Bren hisses.

Bren tenses his jaw, and the clenching of his muscles stings the cut on his throat. “What did you do,” Lucien asks, pressing a kiss further up, “when you ran off,” another kiss, and Bren can feel his tongue now, “yesterday?”

Bren’s first attempt to talk comes out as a shaky whine as Lucien wraps his lips around the flushed head of his cock. “Hhh- I-” his hand goes up to his mouth in reflex, the same one that he had bitten.

Lucien hums knowingly around his length, bobbing his head further down and playing havoc with a forked tongue against the sensitive underside. He juxtaposes the gentleness by squeezing Bren’s ass, his claws biting into the skin. Bren doesn’t flinch away from the pain, just muffles a groan with his fist in his mouth.

Lucien’s mouth feels better than he could ever have dreamed. Hot and wet, and the forked tongue was an unexpected but very pleasant surprise. Bren’s hips jerk of their own accord, and Lucien barely manages not to gag.

Bren whines when the tiefling pulls away. “Oh, honey, that’s so cute,” he says. “Look at you,” he clicks his tongue, “I’m ruining such a good little spy… What a shame.”

He stands and presses in close to Bren, who immediately starts working on getting his pants down too. Lucien takes advantage of Bren’s hand moving away from his mouth and leans in close to just barely brush their lips together. Bren wouldn’t even call it a kiss, but a whisper of one, a tease for one.

Gripping the waistband of Lucien’s undone trousers, Bren yanks Lucien flush against him. He can feel their erections sliding together, slicked by Lucien’s spit. Lucien catches himself with a hand against the trunk of the tree, groaning.

Lucien’s teeth are on his neck in an instant, he licks against the cut on his throat, and whispers, “Show me how you touched yourself.”

Bren complies without hesitation, gripping Lucien’s cock roughly and jerking him with single-minded focus. Lucien stutters out a moan, and Bren smiles at finally having caught him off guard. “H-hh _hah_ ,” Lucien whines.

Lucien buries his head against Bren’s shoulder and brings a hand up to Bren’s erection, stroking him with the same rhythm Bren uses on him, apparently done with the teasing. Bren bites his tongue, forcing himself silent so that he can hear Lucien’s moans pitching higher before he falls over the crest with a hiccuped sob, his whole body shaking. Bren follows closely behind him, his knuckles white where he moves to grip the back of Lucien’s cloak.

In the afterglow, Bren slips one of the rings from Lucien’s horns, holding it loosely in his palm. This escapes Lucien’s notice.

Bren leans against the tree, and Lucien leans against him for support, as they both stand panting. Lucien pulls away suddenly, leaving Bren’s skin to make gooseflesh in the cooling air. Lucien grabs his face, squeezing, and kisses his cheek. “See you around, honey,” he says, and he pulls his pants back up, tying them and then leaving Bren to wonder what the fuck has just happened to him.

———

The next letter he sends to Master Ikithon actually has some substance. He can tell his mentor that the Tomb Takers are not set up in Shady Creek Run, but rather, right outside. He can tell him that they are not paid well. He can tell him that _Lucien_ is unhappy with the arrangement. He neglects to reveal how he got this information.

In an exact amount of time later, the time it would’ve taken for Master Ikithon to receive and read the letter, Bren receives a message in his mind from his mentor. 

“Return home,” he says, “bring nothing.”

“Bring nothing” assures him that his assignment isn’t finished, but the thought of returning home to deceive his mentor to his face is unnerving. They are only lies of omission, but lies nonetheless. He draws the chalk lines on the floor by memory and teleports back to Rexxentrum, the city that has been his home for so many years.

The door at the base of Master Ikithon’s tower would open for him, but he knows that is not where he is expected. Instead, he makes his way to a different, shorter tower in the same ward. It is a place where he spent a significant amount of time. Absently, he rubs his forearms as he walks, but stills his fidgeting and straightens his posture as he enters.

At the top, he finds Trent Ikithon and his two peers, Astrid and Eadwulf. They are on their knees in a rounded line behind their mentor, with a space between them. Bren takes his place without hesitation, and waits to be addressed.

“Have you made progress, Bren,” Trent asks, he doesn’t turn away from the window he was looking out of when Bren arrived. Bren knows that his approach was closely watched.

“Yes,” Bren says. “As my report stated.”

“Good,” Trent says. Bren tries not to preen too obviously from the praise. “So, Derogna is mistaken in thinking that the Tomb Takers are satisfied with their dealings?”

“Yes,” Bren says again. “Lucien, the leader, has an obvious hatred of her.”

“They are paid less than my allowance, as a group,” Bren continues. “The tabaxi mentioned being unable to afford a single night in the same inn, but the leader disagreed. They shared one room for the night, and left in the morning.”

“Have you located their base of operations?”

Bren prickles, remembering what happened the last time he tried that. “No,” he says. “The leader is paranoid. The others leave first, and he follows behind them a few moments later, too closely for me to follow them. I have attempted to follow him directly, but he watches his path closely.”

“Does he suspect you?” Trent asks.

Bren swallows at the lump in his throat. “He did,” Bren says, “but I believe I am earning his trust.”

“And how are you doing this?”

Bren relaxes, as Master Ikithon has seemingly accepted that answer. “A shared resentment for Vess Derogna,” he says. “I was discovered as a practitioner of the arcane, so I have implied myself as deranged from the Assembly.”

“He accepted this?”

“I believe so,” Bren says. “Yes,” he corrects himself, wanting to sound more confident than he is.

“Good,” Trent says again. “Astrid, Eadwulf, you may go.”

The two stand immediately and make to leave. Astrid eyes him with concern, and Eadwulf doesn’t look at him at all. Bren feels dread sink into the pit of his stomach.

Master Ikithon waits until the others are long gone and Bren is starting to feel the crushing weight of being the sole focus of his mentor’s attention.

“Bren?”

“Yes, Master Ikithon?” Bren responds on reflex.

“Why is Derogna gloating?” he asks, and Bren’s mouth feels as though it is full of cotton. “And why do I feel as though you are not telling the truth?”

“Surely, you, of all people, Bren,” he continues, “would know better than to lie to me.”

“I do,” Bren says, and he nods. “Of course, I do-“

Ikithon’s hands move in a practiced sway of arcane power. Bren knows exactly what spell he is casting. A curious grin twists Ikithon’s face. “What are you hiding from me?”

Bren forces his expression to be neutral, and he doesn’t respond, which he knows is a mistake. Master Ikithon lets the spell loose, and the room fills with fire. Bren keeps his gaze straight ahead, but his hands are betraying him. His fingers dig into the skin of his thighs, and even through his trousers, he can feel his nails.

Master Ikithon stands still as a mountain. He is unwavering, indomitable, _knowing_.

“Please,” Bren gives in. “Please stop.”

“You know how to make that happen,” Ikithon says

“He knew who I was,” Bren says. “I am not sure how, perhaps he asked his benefactor.”

The illusion doesn’t dissipate, so he continues, “I was forced to reveal myself or lose everything,” he says. “The truth did not end my connection to him, there is still more information to be gained. He still believes that we are against Vess Derogna.”

He pulls the ring he took off of Lucien’s horn out of his pocket and tosses it to the floor between them. “It belongs to him,” he says. “It will be useful as a component for scrying.”

Master Ikithon’s arms fold and he casts again, but he doesn’t release the spell. The trauma intensifies around Bren as he uses the higher level illusion. His arms flare with a green glow and agony.

 _What else_ , he scrambles to think, _what am I missing?_

“He believes he is using me,” he says. “Because I have yielded to him. It was my mistakes that led to my being revealed. I could not control myself, my temptation-“

Master Ikithon snaps his fingers, and the illusions are gone instantly. Bren sighs in relief. “Thank you,” Bren whispers, his tone wavering.

“Well, I’m pleased that you were able to turn it around on him,” Ikithon says. “You are dismissed, return to Shady Creek Run and continue your work.”

Bren stands on trembling legs and wills his knees not to buckle under him as he shuffles out of the tower like a dog with his tail between his legs. He could teleport directly from there, but he wants the comfort from seeing his friends before he goes.

The two meet him at the bottom of the tower, and Astrid takes his hand as he walks. “It did not take as long as it has in the past,” she says optimistically. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a fool,” Bren says. “I know better than to try to hide things from him.”

“What were you hiding?” She asks, and he slips his hand free of hers.

Even though Ikithon twisted whatever was genuine and innocent between them like he was wringing out a dish rag until there was nothing left, he feels like he is betraying her.

“I made mistakes,” he admits. “I nearly cost him everything there.” 

She nods, but Bren continues, and tries to play it off as a joke. “Honeypotting can get out of hand easily.”

“Don’t get too close, Bren,” she says. “It is far too risky.”

“Ja, I know,” he agrees. He takes both Astrid and Eadwulf by the hands. “Have a drink with me before I leave?” he asks, pulling them both along, in the direction of the dance hall.

Astrid nods with a smile and Eadwulf grips his hand tighter and takes the lead, pulling them all three giggling across the courtyard like they’re teenagers again.


	4. Probationary

Bren dances with his longtime friends and former lovers like he has no obligations, no worries. He spins until he is dizzy, until, in his mind, there is no one else. There is no Trent Ikithon, no Vess Derogna, no Tomb Takers, no Lucien.

He teleports without saying goodbye and falls back on his bed in the tavern in Shady Creek Run. The faint sounds of the bar below reach his ears, playing off the recent memory of the dance hall, and he smiles.

Bren naps fitfully for a while, but is rudely interrupted by a knock at his door. He drags himself to it and opens it to the innkeeper. He stares her down with no greeting.

“I know you said no one would call after you,” she says, “but someone is.”

His mind spirals for a moment. Ikithon wouldn’t send someone to keep an eye on him, would he? That would be such an insult, a punishment. He can’t bear the thought of not being trusted. His fingers go to the amulet that was given to him before he left for this assignment.

“Who?” he asks, but a lavender, clawed hand slaps the door fully open before she can answer. She splutters for a moment while Lucien pushes his way in.

“That’ll be all, love,” Lucien says. “I’ll take it from here.”

She looks uncomfortable for a moment, but throws up her hands and leaves. This likely isn’t her first interaction like this. Bren shuts the door behind her as Lucien surveys his room.

“Oh, you _are_ someone’s best boy, aren’t you?” Lucien asks, sounding amused. “You’ve been set up nicely here. I don’t think even Ophelia Mardoon has the coin it would take to keep you here for a month.”

Bren lays back down on his bed, much less content than he was a moment before. “I was asleep,” Bren complains.

Lucien flops down beside him and caresses his cheek. “Aw, honey, I’m sorry,” he says. “Let me make it up to you.”

Bren pushes his hand away. This is all Lucien’s fault in the first place.

“You’re no fun today,” Lucien says, but he relents and lays still next to Bren.

“I received a… poor review today,” Bren admits, “from my benefactor.”

“That’s strange, mine seemed thrilled,” Lucien says.

“I am aware,” Bren grumbles.

“I got you in trouble,” Lucien concludes, and he is correct. “I’m sorry, darling. You wouldn’t tell me your name, so I asked Derogna about the sweetest little redhead I’d just met in the Run. She laughed.”

Bren frowns at the ceiling and doesn’t respond. He doesn’t like the idea of Vess Derogna getting amusement from his failings, or knowing about them at all. Lucien sits up and looks back at Bren, who rolls over to avoid eye contact with him.

“She didn’t tell me who you spy for,” Lucien says. “I think she knows, but she doesn’t seem to care. Is it Ludinus Da’leth?”

“No,” Bren says. He is tempted to leave it at that, but it would be a missed opportunity. He forces himself to roll over and finally face Lucien. “Why do you ask?”

“I knew you weren’t done with me,” he says. “You’ve just scratched the surface.”

Bren turns again, but Lucien stops him before he can. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you something,” Lucien says. “As an apology.”

“I am listening,” Bren says.

“Derogna hates Da’leth,” he says. “He wanted that book I took from Molaesmyr, but it had been paid for already, and he wasn’t willing to buy out my contract.”

“What was the book?” Bren asks, genuinely interested now.

Lucien smiles and taps Bren on the nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teases. “I think Derogna and Da’leth should settle their frustrations with each other like we settled ours. Nothing like a good hate-fuck in the forest to put your mind at ease.”

“I don’t hate you,” Bren corrects.

“You called me an annoying bastard,” Lucien chuckles, settling his arms above his head and stretching out like a luxuriant cat.

“You _are_ an annoying bastard,” Bren says. He scoots in closer to Lucien and cradles the tiefling’s chin in his hand, the nails of his last two fingers scraping just behind his ear. “And a tease, why not kiss me before?”

“Wasn’t sure if you were into that,” Lucien says, “or if you’re just a fuckup who likes getting pushed around in the dirt.”

“Can I not be both?” he asks.

Lucien’s lips are softer than he imagined, and his forked tongue is strange, but Bren leans into the unfamiliar. He draws a soft sigh from the tiefling, and turns it into a moan with a bite to his lip. Lucien’s lips are left flushed and kiss-swollen when he pulls away.

“I’m glad you are,” Lucien purrs. He studies Bren’s face for a moment, and the redhead considers kissing him again, but Lucien interrupts the thought. “Come with me to Molaesmyr.”

Bren blinks in confusion, and his brow furrows. “What?”

“There are no wizards in the tomb takers, and no way to see the dangers of the items we’re taking to Derogna,” he says. “It puts the lives of my group at risk. I don’t trust her.”

“And you trust _me_?” Bren asks.

Lucien rocks his head indecisively. “More than I trust her, for sure,” he says. “I think it would be in your best interest not to lie to me about what we find, and that’s enough.”

Bren chuckles. “Yesterday, you tried to end my life,” he says. “Today, you ask me to join the Tomb Takers.”

“Probationary membership,” Lucien says, and he reaches up to tickle under Bren’s chin. “I wouldn’t consider it if you weren’t so cute.”

Bren grabs Lucien’s wrists and pins them back above his head, then moves to straddle him. Lucien purrs and arches his back. Bren rocks his hips against Lucien’s, and swallows his moan with another kiss. This time, it’s Lucien who bites, and he draws blood.

“You were right, before,” Bren says. He shifts to suck a hickey onto the tiefling’s neck.

“Often am,” Lucien says, then whines at Bren’s attention, canting his hips up to try and get more friction. Bren doesn’t oblige, and keeps his movements slow. “What was I right about?”

“When you said that I wanted to fuck you,” Bren answers. “I do.” He bites down on Lucien’s neck, drawing blood to the surface and making a bruise.

“Can’t do that when you’re this dressed,” Lucien complains. Bren answers his whining by humming and unlacing his shirt. He pushes it open, the laces sliding through the fabric with a _shhh_ sound.

“I am only getting started, schatz,” Bren says. He leans down to take a stiffened purple nipple into his mouth, sucking for a moment and then biting down, making another bruise in the shape of his teeth there.

“Fuck-“ Lucien squirms, trying to rub up against Bren for any relief at all. 

Bren has to free his arms to move further down, leaving a trail of teeth marks all the way down to Lucien’s navel. The tiefling opens his trousers and tries to shimmy out of them, but he doesn’t get very far because of how tight they are. Bren huffs a laugh above him.

“You are so eager, Lucien,” he says. He pushes Lucien’s open shirt further up his arms and then hooks the hem and neck over a post on the frame on the bed. It’s not an effective restraint, but the tiefling is harnessed until he can wiggle his arms out.

Bren kisses him again, deeper this time, until he feels lightheaded and Lucien’s eyes have fluttered closed. He pulls back to see a violet flush across lavender cheeks. Lucien licks his lips and takes in a shaky breath.

Bren takes advantage of having dazed him for a moment; he tugs the too-tight pants down and removes his boots as well. He takes all three and tosses them aside, off the bed. He takes a moment to admire the tiefling, all lean, taut muscle. Lucien’s chest is rising and falling quickly, a blush has spread halfway down his torso, his legs promiscuously fallen open, and his erect cock is glistening with prespend already.

Bren trails a finger through the clear fluid leaking from the tip, and brings it to his mouth, sucking the digit in with hollowed cheeks. Lucien growls, straining against the meager restraints, and Bren can hear cotton fabric ripping before he relaxes again.

“Now let me see you,” Lucien says, _begs_ , almost.

“Say please,” Bren insists, and Lucien’s eyes darken. His tail whips like a lash. “It would be easy to leave you like this,” Bren says, gently grazing his fingers along Lucien’s inner thigh, watching the muscles tremble ever so slightly at his touch.

“Take your clothes off,” Lucien bites out, and Bren clicks his tongue.

He flips Lucien over onto his stomach, twisting the fabric of his shirt so that he really is restrained to the headboard, and Lucien groans. Bren settles between his spread thighs and leans up to kiss the back of his neck. He runs his fingers through Lucien’s hair, enjoying how the tiefling arches his neck to lean into the touch. Bren clenches his fist and holds him at that strained angle for a moment to make hickeys on the other side of his neck than before, and then releases him.

He trails kisses slowly, lazily down Lucien’s spine, waiting for Lucien to figure out what his plans are. He gets to the base of the tiefling’s tail before he starts squirming again. He pushes Lucien’s legs further apart and shifts further down on the bed.

“Up, just a bit,” he says, urging Lucien to lift his hips, and the tiefling complies, getting up onto his knees.

He takes Lucien in hand, stroking him with a loose grip from base to tip a few times to hear him sigh with pleasure. He licks a strip in the opposite direction, and presses a kiss to the flush of skin behind his sack, and spreads him open. He licks from his perineum to the base of his tail. 

Lucien’s body jumps at the touch of Bren’s tongue, and Bren grabs his tail to hold him still, pulling him back down within reach. Lucien makes a garbled noise, muffled against the pillow. Confused by the reaction, Bren lets go, but the tiefling’s tail winds tightly around his arm and holds him in place.

Bren doubles his efforts, massaging the joint of Lucien’s tail and spine with deft fingers while he works his tongue to bring Lucien closer to the brink. The tiefling makes a mewling sort of sound, twisting in his bindings. Bren lets his fingers slide down the length to the spaded tip as it whips back and forth. 

He is curious about the reaction Lucien had to the attention on his tail. He follows the outline of the spade with his thumb, a gentle caress at first, and then bearing the digit down. He scrapes the nail of his thumb against it and Lucien sobs.

“Gods-“ he moans, his voice hoarse and desperate as a tremor runs through his body, “fuck- oh _fuck_.”

Bren pulls away, and hears a keening and incoherent noise of complaint. He keeps the spade in his hand as he rummages through the draw of his bedside table. When he turns, the oil in his other hand, he catches a glimpse of Lucien’s face.

The cold edge of confidence is gone. The insufferable smugness is gone. All that is left is a maddened desire. His mouth hangs open as he pants, spit slicked, and the pillow beneath him has a pool of damp where he’d been either drooling or weeping. His hair is in disarray, sticking out at every angle and curling at the tips from the sweat that coats his entire body.

Bren has thoroughly wrecked him, he realizes, and it swells pride in his chest. His lips twitch into a smirk. He leans in close and kisses Lucien’s forehead, “I win this one,” he teases, but there is no snarky comeback.

“Bren… _please_...” Lucien whines.

He whimpers just from Bren trying to soothe him by rubbing his back, so Bren decides not to tease him in preparing him. He has done more than enough.

“Are you ready?” Bren asks, and Lucien scoffs.

“Is that really a question-“ Bren curls his fingers as Lucien starts with the cocky attitude again, and it shuts him up effectively. “Yes,” Lucien says, his voice strained, “yes, please just fuck me.”

“All you had to do was ask nicely,” Bren says.

Bren takes his time sinking into Lucien’s heat, which frustrates the tiefling to no end. He squirms, but he can’t push back any further because he is held to the headboard. Bren shifts forward to give him a little freedom, but grabs Lucien by the base of his tail and pulls him backward into his cock.

Lucien gasps and shudders. Bren lets him shift until he’s relaxed and comfortable, and then he starts with gentle movements.

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” Lucien says, and he looks back to Bren over his shoulder with the glint of mischief in his eyes now. Bren tugs his tail from the base, slamming Lucien backwards onto him. Lucien groans and yanks at the restraints, making the headboard thump against the wall.

Lucien’s tail is coiled around his arm like a viper again, and he can feel his fingers starting to go numb. He sets a more brutal pace, chasing his own orgasm as much as Lucien’s. He holds tight to Lucien’s tail and reaches up for his hair as well, taking a fistful of the purple locks and craning Lucien’s neck so that he can’t dare stifle his moans in the pillows.

“Yes- _yes_ ,” Lucien gasps, and he trembles and sinks lower as his knees start to buckle under him. He squirms, whining at the ache building in him. “Bren, t- _ah_ touch me, please,” he pants, his every ragged breath edged with a moan. “I need-“

Bren releases his hold on the tiefling’s hair, letting his head fall forward, and reaches around him instead. Despite what he wants and asked for, Lucien mewls and arches away from the touch, overstimulated.

Bren slows his pace again, almost to a halt, “Do you want me to stop?” he asks. It serves no purpose to seriously hurt his target, after all.

Lucien shakes his head frantically, “No, gods no,” he says.

Bren resumes his quick thrusts, and the heat drawing taut in him begins to get the better of him. His hips stutter in their movement and he groans softly.

Lucien spouts a litany of swear words before he lets out a moan more like a wail and his entire body trembles beneath Bren’s hands as he climaxes. His knees finally give out and he collapses onto the bed, gasping for air.

Bren releases him, not wanting to overstimulate him even more than he already has, and finishes himself off. He lays next to Lucien, studying his comedown through a haze.

Anxiety prickles his skin and makes him sit up when he sees how dark Lucien’s hands have gotten in their bindings. “Scheiße, Lucien,” he says, unhooking, untwisting the shirt, and pulling it off of Lucien’s arms. “You should have told me that this was too tight.”

Lucien drops limply onto the bed, and stretches, groaning quietly. He flexes his fingers and wrists. His lip is bleeding where he must have bitten it, badly enough to have the red trickle down his chin. Lucien props himself shakily on his elbows and wipes the blood from his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Bren asks.

Lucien smiles, and chuckles. “You’re so cute, Bren,” he says. “Look at you, all caring and sweet.”

Bren genuinely can’t tell if he is being mocked or not.


	5. Schatz

“Get up, schatz,” Bren says, patting Lucien’s back. “I want to change the sheets.”

“You think I can stand up?” Lucien asks honestly.

“Ja, for a second,” he says.

Lucien grumbles to himself and steps tentatively out of the bed. His legs wobble and he has to catch himself on the bedpost. He sniffs, watching Bren change the sheets. “You could ask the staff to do that, they know exactly what happened.”

“Oh, of that, I am sure,” Bren says, and he smirks at Lucien. “You are not subtle.”

Lucien preens. “Did you expect me to be?”

“No,” Bren says. He tucks the sheet under the mattress and pats the bed. “All yours.”

There is a hesitation in Lucien’s expression, only for a flash, but Bren notices it with razor sharp clarity, because it was unexpected. Lucien settles back into the bed anyway, curling up on his side. “Are you joining me?”

“In a moment,” he says. “You need water, perhaps food, have you eaten today?”

Lucien’s brow furrows in confusion. “No,” he admits. “I didn’t plan my breakfast around getting fucked within an inch of my life.”

“I will be back,” Bren says, and he composes his clothes and leaves the room.

———

Lucien would seriously consider leaving if he was at all capable of standing on his own two feet, but at the moment, he isn’t. So, he decides to relax and enjoy whatever post-orgasmic madness is making Bren want to dote on him. He raises his hands into his view and squeezes them into fists. He has small, constellation-like bruises forming in his palms from the tiny bursts of blood, but he deems them fine overall.

He takes a moment of quiet to listen. The sound of the tavern is decently muffled, but he can pick out Bren’s thick accent anyway. He smirks to himself, knowing that he was definitely heard. He hopes the patrons appreciated the afternoon show. He rolls over to the side of the bed where Bren had taken the oil from, and pulls open the bedside table to snoop through it.

A spellbook, loose paper, bottles of ink, an inkpen, a quill, and a second book. It’s smaller, less conspicuous. It doesn’t look like it wants to be noticed. Lucien takes it and thumbs through for the most recently filled pages. It’s all in Zemnian, so he can’t read it, but he flicks through the whole of it, looking for anything he might understand. There are a few crude drawings near the front of the book, they’re of three people, children, and towers. Lucien hums to himself, amused, and then puts everything back as he found it when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs.

The door opens, and Bren comes in with a tray and a pewter pitcher. He shuts the door with a bump of his hips, and he finds Lucien just as he left him.

“What does schatz mean?” Lucien asks as Bren sets everything down on the bedside table.

Bren pours a cup of water for each of them, and hands one over to Lucien, who takes it, but doesn’t drink. “Drink, and I’ll answer,” he says. Lucien obliges him, so he continues. “It, ehm. It can translate to darling, sweetheart, a number of pet names.”

Lucien gives the cup back, and Bren takes a hold of his wrist, turning it over to look at his hand. He makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, and then climbs up onto the bed to massage the circulation back into Lucien’s hands. Lucien allows this to happen, watching him curiously.

“You never took off your clothes, and here I am, completely naked,” Lucien says, stating the obvious.

“You were petulant,” Bren says.

“Did you teach me a lesson?” Lucien asks with a grin.

“Did you learn one?” Bren asks. Lucien snatches his own hand back, and Bren shifts until he’s sitting cross-legged.

“Maybe,” Lucien says. 

He unbuttons Bren’s shirt slowly, and then slips it off of his shoulders and arms. He tosses it to the side of the bed, in a similar location to all of his own clothes. He works off Bren’s trousers next, which Bren has to stand up and help with.

“There,” Bren says, getting back onto the bed now that he is undressed. “Are you happy?”

“Pleased,” Lucien says.

“Then let me,” he takes Lucien’s wrist back, his grip gentle in comparison to what they were doing only moments ago. He works his thumbs down from the wrist into every finger. Lucien can’t exactly say it feels _good_ , but it does help the tingling stop. After a bit, Bren moves on to the other hand.

Lucien watches him with idle curiosity for a while, and then starts to doze in and out of sleep. By the time Bren is done with the second hand, he is completely out.

Bren knows that he should get out of bed, leave the room, and head out into the Savalier Wood. Lucien was the only thing preventing him from locating the Tomb Taker’s base of operations, and now he’s asleep here. Bren yawns, his own eyelids drooping now that he has satisfied his need to undo the mistake of letting the restraints be too tight for too long.

He settles down next to Lucien, intending to sleep for a few minutes and then get up and find the Tomb Taker’s base, but he quickly drifts into a deeper sleep.

———

Lucien wakes up to the sunset filtering through the curtains, and finds himself face to face with Bren, who is still asleep. Bren is curled on his side, in a loose fetal position, with his hands tucked up against his chin, covering his throat. Lucien sees, for the first time, the scars that cover his arms. Over them, a spiral-like pattern of raised marks darkened with soot show, and Lucien is fascinated by them. He drags an index finger gently over the bumps. They aren’t normal, raised scars. Something has been placed beneath his skin under each one.

Bren flinches in his sleep and curls tighter as Lucien toys with the marks, and Bren’s soft whimper gives him pause. “They hurt,” Lucien breathes quietly, “all of them?” The bumps number more than Lucien cares to count at the moment, and he frowns.

At rest and relaxed, Bren looks a lot younger than Lucien originally thought he was. He still must be in his early thirties, but no more than that. Freckles dapple across his face, his neck, his arms, his stomach, all over. Lucien even spots a few on his ears and a stray one on his lip. The clean shaven face that Lucien has become used to is stubbled now, as if he didn’t get a chance to shave this morning. A dusting of hair down his chest, trailing to his groin, all of it just as red as the well-groomed undercut on his head.

The moment is so soft that it feels stolen. Bren nuzzles his face into the pillow and wraps his arms around himself, shivering as the temperature goes down with the sun. The fire is just smoldering embers now, and Bren hadn’t thought to cover himself up before he fell asleep, because he didn’t intend to sleep past sunset. Lucien tentatively slides himself near and wraps an arm over Bren’s waist, coaxing him closer to his chest.

Bren hands are like ice against his skin, but he resists the urge to hiss and squirm away. He is curious to see what the redhead will do here. He stops shivering after a moment, and an arm slides over Lucien’s side. Bren is flush against him, breathing slowly and resting soundly. Lucien is taking intimacy that likely doesn’t belong to him, he realizes, but it is nice to wonder what it might feel like.

His wondering is short-lived, as Bren hums in his sleep and turns his face up to Lucien’s. His sky-blue eyes are hazy from sleep, and he blinks a few times before he seems to realize their positions. “What…” he mumbles, his voice deeper and croaky from sleep. He clears his throat. “How did we end up like this?”

“You were cold,” Lucien says. “It happens, when you’re naked.”

Bren sits up, pulling himself from Lucien’s hold, and rubs his hands over his face. “I did not intend to sleep for so long,” he says.

“Did you give it some thought?” Lucien asks, and Bren takes a moment to think past the fog in his head.

“Coming with you to a cursed ruin?” Bren asks, but he doesn’t wait for Lucien to answer. “No, I was a little distracted.”

“Well, who could blame you,” Lucien says, and he stretches out when Bren glances back, pulling muscles taut in the right place.

 _He has the body of a dancer_ , Bren thinks.

“You are insatiable,” Bren says, and Lucien laughs.

“Aren’t you one orgasm up?” Lucien asks. “Since you got yourself off to the thought of me in the rain.”

Bren sucks in a breath at the reminder. “You cannot honestly expect me to believe that you did not do the same,” he says.

“But I have proof,” Lucien says, and he reaches out to squeeze the bite mark on Bren’s hand, making the redhead hiss at the stinging.

“I will come with you and your Tomb Takers,” Bren says, “but first, I want to see your base of operations.”

“It might take a while to talk Cree into that,” Lucien chuckles. “She thinks you’re here to kill me.”

“Lucien, if I wanted that, you would be dead,” Bren says. It is true, he could likely kill him with a spell easily.

“For a time,” Lucien says with a smirk. “If it didn’t work for Derogna, it won’t work for you.” He sighs and props his feet up on the back of Bren’s shoulders.

“Vess Derogna tried to kill you?” Bren asks, not turning around.

“Vess Derogna _did_ kill me,” Lucien says. “We renegotiated the terms of our agreement after my return. She was _not_ pleased to see me.”

“Your friends are powerful, then,” Bren surmises, “to laugh in the face of death.”

“They are _now_ ,” Lucien says. “Thankfully, Cree didn’t bury me very deep. Poor thing, she didn’t know what to do after Derogna ran off.”

Bren stays quiet, hoping that Lucien will fill the silence with more information, but he doesn’t. It hangs in the air between them like a weighted axe on a pendulum, waiting to swing. Bren turns to face Lucien, finally, who only smiles in response. The wildness in his eyes is more clear than ever.


	6. Mesiter Ermendrud

Bren hears from Master Ikithon before he hears from Lucien again. The tiefling had left, promising to bring up Bren’s desire to visit their base with the rest of the Tomb Takers. This time, Ikithon draws him to Vergesson, not the academy. Bren walks up the shallow incline to the iron gate with heavy feet. He remembers his time in the Sanitarium, and though he is thankful for the result of what took place here, he is also thankful that it has ended.

He straightens his posture as the wrought iron gates are opened for him, and walks across the courtyard to Ikithon’s “summer home”. In the yard, there are clusters of young faces that he has seen before, only once, months ago.

Master Ikithon’s recruitment process is slow, and always in threes. Two, and they are too tightly knit to break. Four, and they are too prone to shatter in the aftermath. The first recruits after his own, Bren was only made vaguely aware of. He knew of them, and knew of their failings and successes from Ikithon, but he was uninvolved. With this group, however, Bren has been kept in the loop.

Bren prides himself on being a chameleon, imitating Ikithon’s posture and intensity as he passes them by. He makes eye contact with each and every one of them as he passes, and their conversations all recede into a hushed silence as they lock gazes. His face is neutral, unlike Ikithon’s ever-present amusement.

His eyes light on one student who continues to talk in a hushed whisper to her clearly terrified companion, who nudges her with his elbow. She looks up, and her eyes brighten with delight, not fear.

“Du, kommst,” he says.

She walks without hesitation. “Ja, Meister Ermendrud?” she says when she is within a conversational distance. The moniker sends an ice-cold chill through his veins, but he ignores it.

“Your family, tell me about them,” he demands. He looks across the yard to her two companions.

“Ja, they are very supportive,” she says. “My baby sister-” she giggles, “she and ma came to see me at the academy, a week ago. She is so pleased, she idolizes her sister. Is that not the dream of an older sibling?”

“How old is she?” he meets her eyes again.

“She is four this year, Meister Ermendrud,” she answers.

“Leave this place,” he says, and starts walking again. “Do not return.”

Her smile drops from her face before she is gone from his view. “But-”

“Go,” he says, loud enough for the others to hear now, “you are unwanted.”

“But… I don’t understand, Meister Ermendrud!” she calls after him, but he doesn’t stop for her pleas. The door to Ikithon’s tower shuts on her, and to her, shuts on her future. She will never know what she has missed, and she will always resent him.

Up the stairs, at the top, he finds Master Ikithon staring out of a window onto the courtyard. He strokes his beard with one hand, his head cocked slightly. A scoffed laugh escapes him as he hears Bren’s footsteps on the top steps. Bren stands at attention, waiting to be addressed.

“She was displeasing to you?” he asks.

“Siblings would complicate matters,” Bren says. “Very young ones, even more so. A toddler would not understand what her sister had to do.”

“I approve of your decision,” Ikithon says. “I intended to send her home myself,” he turns and closes the distance between himself and his pupil, and lays a hand on his shoulder, “but you took the initiative. Good.”

Bren’s confidence swells at the praise. “Her friends will need to be sent away, also,” he says. “I will take care of this, if you will allow it.”

Ikithon nods, and he moves back over to the window. “When you leave here, you may,” he says. He beckons Bren over, not checking to see if he complies. He knows that he will. “Do any of them catch your attention at a glance?”

He yields the place of power, stepping back with a smile to let Bren peer out of the window as he has done many times before. Bren stills his nerves with a shaky inhale, and he looks down on the four, now three groups of three. He remembers this part of his process. Three teens from Blumenthal, who had known nothing but farming and petty tricks until two years prior.

Each seems fairly average, but he must look with more than his eyes. He closes his eyes and calls to mind the portfolios he was provided weeks before he left for Shady Creek Run. “Berthild Fischer,” he says.

He opens his eyes to spot her in the courtyard. She and her two companions are a mangly bunch, taken from the detritus of the Mosaic Ward. The three had been plucked from a court trial for their acts against the city - _for_ the city. Berthild had been and is still the ringleader.

“The vigilante from Rexxentrum,” Ikithon echoes Bren’s thoughts. “Why choose the rebels?”

“Their crime was not rebellion,” Bren says. “It was the last shreds of patriotism those who are left to rot can cling to.”

“Already,” Bren continues, “she was willing to kill to protect her fellow citizens of the empire.”

“And her crimes?” Ikithon asks.

“Misguided and misinformed attempts at what you train us to do,” he says. “Seek, collect, and destroy.”

Ikithon chuckles behind him, and joins him in the clouded sunlight coming through the window. “She will be a challenge, Bren,” he says. “Breaking her will not be easy.”

“That does not frighten me,” Bren lies. He stares down at the three teenagers, his heart and eyes hardened towards them. The entirety of his training flashes before his eyes, and he can feel the vessels in his throat pulsing.

If Master Ikithon notices the lie, he does not say. His hand goes to Bren’s shoulder again, “Good,” he says. “Hold onto that.”

“Yes, Master Ikithon,” Bren says.

“Trent,” he says. His grin widens with Bren’s eyes.

“Trent,” Bren repeats, the name sounding unwieldy and wrong on his tongue. He feels as though it is an act of offense, but Ikithon’s expression says otherwise.

“Go on then, tell the rest of them that they will no longer be needed,” he says. “I will call upon you again to begin the next phase of their training.”

Bren’s knees feel as though they might buckle underneath him, but he wills himself to walk. He nods to his mentor as he goes. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, before he opens the door to the courtyard. He has to, to right himself, to swallow the bile that has risen in his throat, to calm his pounding heart.

When he opens the door, his chest no longer heaves, his eyes are no longer wide, and his back is straight. He goes to each of the students in turn, telling them that they have not been selected. Finally, he comes to Berthild, Ulrich, and Gudrun.

“Congratulations,” he says to them. “Your progress pleases both me, and my mentor, Master Trent Ikithon.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Berthild asks. “So far, all I’ve learned are parlor tricks.”

“It means that the next phase of your training will begin when you are called upon again,” he says. “Do not fret, you are nearly out of the parlor.”

She nods, though she looks skeptical. The other two go with her when she walks away. Bren fights the urge to look to his mentor for approval, but he believes that he feels Ikithon’s eyes on him nonetheless.

He wonders what Ikithon feels when he looks at his pupils, because it can’t be the dread welling up from so deep in his chest that it can only be from his soul itself. It can’t be the urge to warn them, to tell them what they must be willing to do, to tell them what they will be expected to do, to tell them that it is already too late to leave.

———

Master Ikithon gives him no followup orders from Vergesson, and it stumbles him. It is the first time that he has been left completely to his own devices without even the vaguest inclination of an order since he walked onto that courtyard as a young boy. His entire being buzzes with frantic energy, and he wants nothing more than to go to Astrid...but he can’t do that anymore. He hasn’t been able to since they were thirteen. She is his competition, more so than Eadwulf. If he falls, she can and will step into his place. It is her prerogative and her duty. More than that, it is her _desire_.

So, he returns to his assignment in Shady Creek Run, without orders to, without knowing if it is what he is _supposed_ to be doing, or if he is _supposed_ to be doing anything at all. He sits on the end of his bed, his knees pulled to his chin, and the amulet held in his hands.

 _A promotion,_ he thinks, _I should be proud._

But all he feels is fear, and disgust. His forearms ache, and the wound that healed over fifteen years ago… starts to seep.


	7. Deal

Bren continues his life in Shady Creek Run as usual, as if nothing world shattering had happened to him at the Vergesson Sanitarium. He reports to Ophelia Mardoon, coyly bats her advances to keep them at an even keel, and returns to his room with the fireplace. He finds himself staring into it more and more.

By the time Lucien returns, the bite on his hand has healed and the cut on his throat has faded into a new scar. Lucien bears no new scars, and doesn’t seem to have had his future turned on its head since they last met.

“Cree finally agreed to let you come,” Lucien says as they trudge through the mud into the forest.

“Strange,” Bren says, “I was under the impression that you were the leader.”

“They follow my judgement,” Lucien says, “but their opinions are their own, and I take Cree’s advice very seriously.”

“Why go against her to invite me, then?” he asks.

“Because it’s fun,” he says. “What’s life without a little risk? You might kill me, you might not.”

“Again, Lucien,” Bren says. “I was never here to kill you.”

“Yet,” Lucien insists, turning on a heel and pointing at him accusingly. His grin is wide as he walks backwards for a few paces before turning again.

He leads Bren off of the main pathway, in the same place that he jumped Bren before. They travel deeper into the forest, taking twists and turns through the trees. Finally, they come upon a ramshackle fort in the forest. It looks like little more than a camp for bandits, and may well have been one once.

Lucien pushes open the doors, and then whistles loudly. Four others come out of the main building at the back of the perimeter. The tabaxi, who Bren knows as Cree, a human, a half-orc, and a half-elf. Lucien walks around behind them and puts a hand on either of their shoulders.

“Tyffial,” he says, jostling the half-elf.

“Otis,” he says, patting the human.

“Zoran,” he says, and he has to reach upwards to touch the half-orc’s shoulders.

“And finally, you already know her,” he shakes Cree by her shoulders while he says her name, making his voice warble. The tabaxi’s ears are laid back flat.

“Everyone,” Lucien says, coming back to Bren’s side. “This is Bren, he will be joining us on our next expedition into Molaesmyr.”

“This is a bad idea,” Cree says. “I want it known that I said this was a bad idea.”

“Noted,” Lucien says, “and overruled. Vess Derogna’s disrespect of this group depends on us not knowing the value or purpose of anything we pull out of that city. Bren can solve that problem.”

“You said he is from the Assembly,” Tyffial says, echoing Cree’s distrust. “How will that help us?”

“I explained this,” Lucien sighs, sounding frustrated. “Every member of the Cerberus Assembly is competing with the others. They all hate each other. Bren doesn’t work for Vess Derogna, and therefore, he is a convenient ally.”

“For now,” Cree adds. “I am sure his boss’ motives are no less selfish than Vess Derogna.”

“Does he talk?” Zoran asks.

“Is it my turn to?” Bren asks indignantly. “I work for the good of my homeland, and if Vess Derogna is conducting research in secrecy, it is my business to seek it out and discover its purpose. My benefactor is curious about your group, and your involvement with Vess Derogna, nothing more.”

Cree’s eyes squint at him. “I will have my eye on you, wizard.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Bren says.

Lucien shakes his head and beckons them all inside. “Play nice in the war room,” he says. “The map was very expensive.”

Bren assumes that Lucien means a map of the Savalier Wood until he is led into a very basic room with a table at its center. On top of this table, a map of the city of Molaesmyr is pinned by knives at its four corners. It is incomplete, but the fact that it exists at all is impressive.

“You have a map of the city?” Bren asks in disbelief, running his fingers over the tanned hide it is inked onto. “Did Derogna provide this?”

Cree scoffs, and Lucien answers, “No, it was purchased from a third party.”

“Who?” Bren asks.

“The Jagentoths sold it to us,” Tyffial says, “but if you’re asking who made it, we have no idea. It was recovered in Molaesmyr off of a corpse. Whoever started this project will not get to finish it.”

“Lucky for you,” Bren says.

Lucien taps his finger to a point on the map. “In the city center, off of the main byway, is where we’re hitting next,” he says, and he draws a line with his touch across a winding path through the streets. “If we leave early, we’ll miss the Jagentoths, but we have a high chance to run into the Mardoons - now, Bren has a connection with the Mardoons, so that might actually benefit us.”

“A connection with the Mardoons?” Otis asks.

“He’s a honeypot,” Lucien says frankly, and Bren feels the flush rising in his cheeks. “Every plaything Ophelia Mardoon has had in the past year has had red hair, you put it together.”

“Ophelia herself won’t be with them,” Cree says. “How well do you know her lackeys?”

“Not closely,” he says. “My primary job with her has been in the identification of magic items coming out of Molaesmyr and from further up north, in the Crystalands and Eiselcross.”

“Will they recognize you?” Cree asks.

“Some of them, yes,” Bren replies. “I have met a few of her trusted commanders, they would yield to me if they recognized me.”

“Good,” Lucien says. “That’s one problem solved, then. The next is that this entire section of the street is completely blocked off by plant growth, rubble, etcetera.”

Zoran points to the northern entrance into the area, “There is rubble here, over fifty feet high, straight up, extremely unstable. North is not an option,” he says. He points to the west. “There is an old Assembly outpost here. The occupants are gone, but there are mounds of bones along the perimeter from creatures who didn’t know better than to cross the threshold.”

“It’s not a good time in there,” Lucien says.

“You saw a line of bones around a perimeter and went into it anyway?” Bren asks.

Lucien leans onto the table, both of his palms flat on the wood, and shrugs, a lazy grin on his face. “Is that in any way a surprise?”

“No,” Bren says. “I can get rid of that, though. It is an outdated mechanism of defense, but it was covered in my lessons.” He neglects to tell them that it indicates that something was left there that was deemed more worthy of protecting than the lives of the people running the outpost. “What about to the east and south?”

“The brambles there are impenetrable,” Zoran says.

“Why not just burn them?” Bren asks, and Lucien chuckles.

“The whole forest would catch,” Tyffial says. Bren doesn’t make any indications to agreement, so she continues. “And it would piss off the Clays.”

“Is that a problem?” Bren asks.

“You don’t want to make the Clays mad,” Lucien says. “We’ve had some dealings with them in the past. They’ll make your life a nightmare until you leave. Of course, they’ll ask nicely first.”

“We had to move closer to the Run because of the little one,” Otis says.

“Like a little poltergeist,” Cree says, “but you can’t banish her because she’s alive.”

“The outpost seems to be the best option, then,” Bren says. “How much do you know about it?”

“I didn’t get very far in,” Lucien says. “I think it’s been abandoned for a long time, the tents have certainly worn down.”

“Derogna didn’t mention it,” Cree adds, “so I assume that it belongs to Ludinus Da’leth.”

“Interesting,” Bren says, “but it would be unwise to assume that Vess Derogna is telling you everything.” He knows that the outpost can’t belong to Derogna, since the failsafe was activated. She would want whatever was left there if she knew about it. 

“Have you told her about its existence?” Bren asks.

“No,” Lucien replies. “She doesn’t pay me enough to tell her extra shit.”

“How much, exactly, does she pay you?” Bren asks, staring down at the map where the outpost is.

“It depends on the item, but currently we’re on a contractual allowance of fifty gold per month,” Lucien says. “She purchases whatever we find as a separate transaction, depending on what it is, and I suspect she does so at a very small percentage.”

Bren reaches into one of the pockets of his coat, keeping an eye on the Tabaxi as she tenses from his sudden movement. From his pocket, he pulls a silk pouch. He opens it and dumps it onto the table, scattering exactly fifty platinum pieces across the table.

“Ten of these are yours today,” he says, “and the rest will be after this expedition is complete. Vess Derogna will not know of this outpost, and I will keep whatever is within that interests me.”

The Tomb Takers besides Lucien and Cree balk at the amount of coin on the table. “What if it’s worth more than this?” Lucien asks, gesturing to the coins on the table.

“Then I will pay what it is worth at sixty percent,” Bren says. “Whatever is there, is of less concern to me than the fact that one of the echelon of the Assembly wants it, but does not have it.”

“See,” Lucien says, looking at Cree. “They all hate each other.”

“Relationships within an organization are a reliable source for judging the character of the individuals,” Cree says. “The Assembly is full of deceitful snakes who want nothing more than their own, personal gain.”

Bren doesn’t dispute this, because she isn’t necessarily wrong. The Assembly cobbles together only when it is for the good of the advancement of their own group or the empire as a whole. Any other time, they all rip at the coattails of the others, snapping at any shred of power they can get like quippers to the scent of blood. In that, he sees his future, and the futures of his best friends.

“Do we have a deal?” Bren asks, holding out his hand to shake.

Lucien takes a knife from his belt, the same one that had been against Bren’s throat. He slits his palm open with it, and then holds the knife, not his hand, out. Bren takes it and mirrors his actions, and their hands clasp together above the map, casting tiny droplets of blood onto it.

“We do indeed,” Lucien purrs.


	8. Cold Hands

Bren’s eyes flutter open to the sound of his mentor’s voice, and it takes a moment for him to realize that the words came from reality, not his dreams. “Two week notice, third phase of Volstrucker training, clear your schedule, I will be expecting you at sunrise,” Ikithon says through the sending spell.

The reply catches in his throat for a beat; he isn’t sure what to call his mentor now. He doesn’t know if Ikithon gave him permission to call him by his first name indefinitely, or just once. “I will be there,” he says, settling on not using a name at all.

He pulls himself out of bed and shivers in the cold air. The seasons are on a turn and his fire must have gone out. With a wave of his hand, he calls the embers back to life. Out of his window, the night left the shanty towns covered in a soft dust of frost and snow. He goes downstairs to order a hot meal and drink, and then spends his breakfast staring out of his window, admiring his view onto the street.

He knows what the next phase will be. He pushes the loose linen of his shirt sleeve up and stares at the rugged scars placed there beneath ash, and holds his face neutral. He, Astrid, and Eadwulf were experiments in this phase. It had never been done before, and the method had to be perfected. The three of them bear the scars of the first few failures. Ikithon was not successful until well into their twenties, and they were pushed to a razor’s edge before what is now the third phase ended.

He thinks of the three young Volstruckers that are next. If he is reading Ikithon correctly, these are _his_ pupils to train, _his_ to mold, and _his_ to scar. He must break them like Ikithon broke him, to see what sprouts from the rubble.

He honestly isn’t sure that he can do this.

———

After he eats, he pulls his journal from his bedside table and writes in it for half an hour, and then puts it away and gathers his supplies. The snow is starting to melt into slush beneath his boots by the time he breaks into the woods towards the Tomb Takers’ base of operations. It is Tyffial that lets him in through the gate.

While he waits for Lucien to gather them, he roams the base. First, the courtyard, which has a basic training area with archery targets and two dummies. There is no landscaping to be seen, just a few stumps left where trees were chopped down at some point and patchy grass over mud. The front room holds the map on a table, a few chairs pushed to the side. Down a hall, there are two doors and a staircase leading up to the second floor.

“Where are you going?” Cree calls down from the railing that overlooks the stairwell.

“I am learning my way around,” he says.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she retorts.

“Do you have a kitchen here? A dining hall, storage?” Cree shakes her head. “Somewhere for you to train while it is raining or snowing?”

“No, we’re not afraid of the weather, silver spoon,” she spits, and he chuckles. “We have a meeting room and bedrooms. The fire pit and training are outside.”

“I am not asking to mock you,” he says. “If I am to work with you, then I will release my room in the Run, and spend my allowance here instead. Unless, that is, you would rather I not do so.”

Cree scoffs in response, and disappears into the hall above. Bren makes a mental note of everything he thinks that they should have. There are a number of empty rooms in this place, so it clearly wasn’t built by the Tomb Takers, and he doubts Vess Derogna would leave them so ill-fitted.

He follows up the stairs, finding 6 more doors that likely lead into bedrooms. He listens carefully as he walks by each in turn. At the last door on the left, he hears talking from within. Lucien and Cree argue for a moment about his presence in the base, and then she opens the door.

She sneers, and gestures to him, looking back at Lucien. “Do you see what I mean?”

“I was looking for your leader,” Bren says. “It seems I found him.”

She pushes past him and goes down the stairs. Lucien chuckles, his shirt on over his arms, but not pulled over his head yet. Bren shuts the door behind him and walks over to the tiefling. With a palm over the scars on his chest, nudges until Lucien’s back is against the wall.

“Good morning to you, too,” Lucien says. Whatever else he has to say is swallowed by a kiss.

Bren brushes his hands over the tiefling’s stomach, making him gasp with their chill. He pinches a nipple between two fingers and tugs slightly, moving his other hand to fondle Lucien through the leather of his trousers. Lucien moans softly, but pushes Bren back with a smirk.

“Later,” he says. “Work first.”

Bren hums, “I wanted to warm my hands,” he says. “You seemed like the best option.”

“They’ll just get cold again on the way to Molaesmyr,” Lucien says. He pulls his half-laced shirt on and finishes up the laces, and then he approaches Bren. He smooths down his collar before gripping it and tugging Bren in close. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he says, and seals the deal with a deep kiss that spins Bren’s mind.

———

The Tomb Takers meet in the war room, to go over their supplies and any last minute plans. It is unlike the atmosphere that Bren is used to in the Assembly. He is used to taking orders, but Lucien asks each of his people for advice and takes it seriously. Bren can’t remember a single time when Ikithon ever asked for his advice, even on something simple.

“Bren, do you have provisions for the thirteen days?” Lucien asks, after he is done with the rest of the Tomb Takers.

“Yes,” he says. Volstruckers typically carry enough beads of nourishment for a week to a month, depending on what they’re doing. Bren still has all thirty that he was sent to the Run with. “I may have to leave you in a rush, I have a prior engagement in two weeks exactly.”

“A meeting with your benefactor, I assume,” Lucien says.

“It will serve a dual purpose,” Bren says. “More of my coin is banked there, and I can collect it to pay you.”

“Excellent,” Lucien says.

———

They travel in relative silence for the first few days, but on the fifth day, Bren catches up to Lucien at the front. “Thirteen days, is it?” he asks, low enough that the others won’t be able to hear him.

“Are we impatient?” Lucien repeats in a like tone.

“No, but you will be,” Bren says. “I have business to attend back home, and I am unsure how long it will take. I could be gone for a month, perhaps forever.”

“You’re done with me?”

“It may be that my mentor’s curiosity with you is sated,” Bren says. “Either way, I will find that out in nine days.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Lucien says. “I’ll come visit you when you’re bored.”

Bren huffs a laugh. “You have no idea where I live.”

“Rexxentrum, somewhere,” Lucien says, and his tone is almost threatening. “The city’s big, but it’s not infinite. There are only so many archmages of the Assembly, and you’ve already ruled out Derogna and Da’leth.”

“You would be a dangerous enemy to have, Lucien,” Bren says. “Derogna should pay you fairly.”

Lucien chuckles, the feral glint in his eyes once more, but he doesn’t reply.

———

Bren rolls over in the moonlight, trying to ignore the chill seeping into his bones despite the burning fire. He turns his head and sees Lucien’s red eyes, open and glowing, staring at him through the darkness. The flames dance and flicker off of them, and Bren’s breath catches in his throat. There’s an instinctual fear of Lucien that stings his veins, and it was what drew him to the tiefling in the first place.

“What’re you staring at?” Lucien asks in a whisper, as if he wasn’t the one staring in the first place.

Bren looks to the canopy of the Savalier Wood and watches his breath fog up above him. He hears Lucien shuffle things next to him and the tiefling’s warm hands are on his, rubbing the cold out of them. Bren is reminded of when he massaged circulation back into Lucien’s hands.

“Why?” Bren asks, watching Lucien work. There is a look of quiet intensity and concentration on his face.

“You said your hands were cold,” Lucien says.

“That was a week ago,” Bren reminds him.

“They’re still cold,” Lucien insists.

Bren sucks in air through his teeth when Lucien moves further up his forearm, and the tiefling stops with his hands over the scars. “Sorry,” Lucien says softly, frowning. His lips twitch with an indiscernible expression before a mask of neutrality returns.

Lucien begins again with his hands, gentler now. Bren stays silent still, and he doesn’t mention it when Lucien moves his sleeping mat closer, either.


	9. Molaesmyr

They arrive at the outskirts of the ruined city on the brink of the thirteenth day, and Bren is starting to get nervous about how thin the time is running. Ikithon told him to clear his schedule, but he didn’t, and now he might suffer for it. If he doesn’t return home in time, Astrid will be there to take his place, and that may well shut him off from advancement for good.

As Lucien predicted, the Mardoons have set up camp outside of the entrance that the Tomb Takers have been using, which is one of the few ways into the city that isn’t overgrown or guarded by something. Bren approaches on his own and pays them off with what coin he has left, and since the captain recognizes him, they accept it and let the Tomb Takers through. The Mardoons eye them warily as they disappear into between the brambles marring the roads.

The ground feels hallowed, their footsteps echoing across the worn stones onto buildings and trees between. The growth is so thick that it almost forms a cavern above the ground, breaking only at the top, letting in such a scarce amount of light that Bren can barely see.

The flora here seems to shift and sway unnaturally. The vines that hang from above curl when touched, wrapping halfway around their throats and arms, only to slip free as they continue on.

“Bren, can you make light?” Cree asks.

Bren nods and four globules of yellowed light float up around the group, casting a torch-like light that guides their way. The vines shift and pull, almost never touching directly into the lights, molding around them in avoidance.

Their surroundings are dead silent, without even the creaking of branches in the wind. Molaesmyr’s overgrowth is so thick that no breeze can break into it, causing the air to be stagnant. The Tomb Takers are unbothered by the sights and experiences on this path, but Bren has never seen anything like this before. He takes in the environment with childlike wonder, such that he hasn’t felt in over a decade.

“We’re coming up on the outpost,” Zoran says.

Bren looks to where he points, and there is a burlap tent erected in what looks like a bare-bones outpost. The tent faces away from them, so he cannot see into it. What he can see, however, are the piles and piles of bones that form a curved line across the street. Not even the plants dare to encroach the boundary, and those that were once there are long dead and dried out.

“The placement of the hub is unfortunate,” Bren says. “I need to see the mechanism to dispel it.”

“What does it look like?” Lucien asks without hesitation. “Describe it, and I’ll bring it out.”

“Are you sure?” Bren asks.

“I’ve already been in there once,” he says. “I’ve seen the inside of the tent, I just couldn’t stay.”

Bren hesitates, which causes a moment of confusion that he has to shrug off. Why should he care about Lucien going into a field of negative energy? It’s his choice, and it helps them in the long run.

“Alright,” Bren says. “It will be a cylinder, usually made at least partially of silver. Two wheel-like structures, one at the top and the other at the bottom, rotating. Newer versions hover, so that the dome is higher and can affect flying creatures.”

“Okay, got it,” Lucien says, and he clambers over the bones and into the zone where the magic has effect.

“It will likely be tarnished,” Bren calls after him. “As I said, they have not been used for a long time.”

Lucien gives them a thumbs up without turning around, and goes around the side of the tent, out of sight. There is a thrum of nervous energy in the group left behind, from Cree especially. She crosses her arms and fidgets, her ears laid back and twitching.

“I never liked death magic,” Zoran says. “Is it still allowed in the Assembly?”

“It is complicated,” Bren answers. “It is not strictly outlawed, but your benefactor’s predecessor was ousted for her necromantic experimentation.”

Lucien reappears around the side of the tent, holding an object like the kind Bren described. Bren gestures for the rest of the Tomb Takers to back up. “The field of energy will come with it,” he says, and so they comply.

Bren can tell that Lucien is already worse for wear. Trails of blood run down from his nostrils, out of his ears, and he is struggling for breath. The wave of negative energy washes over Bren as the generator is brought near enough that he can _dispel_ it. He chokes, clutching his stomach, but he knows that he won’t have enough time to collect himself _and_ cast the spell.

He moves his hands in the arcane gestures of _dispel magic_ , but the enchantment is stronger than he anticipated. He feels the energy strain and bow against his intrusion for a beat of his heart, two beats, three- and it shatters. He crumples to his hands and knees, scraping his palms against weathered stone. A few drops of blood spatter onto the ground beneath him, and he reaches up to wipe his nose, sniffing.

Bren is certain now, that the camp belonged to Ludinus. An item that powerful, and from so long ago, who else could it be? He stands on shaky legs as Lucien returns to the group, the mechanism swinging in his grasp. It is no longer glowing or moving, completely inert.

“It probably killed every occupant of the camp instantly when they turned it on,” Bren says, and then he turns to Lucien. “Are you alright?”

“Me?” Lucien says, his brow furrowing. “Are you? You look like shit.”

“I will be fine,” Bren says.

The group makes their way into the outpost, and Cree sets up a ritual healing circle for Lucien. Bren does not join in. He feels unwelcome from her already, and doesn’t want to push his luck. Whatever is here, he needs to find it quickly, because he has to be in Rexxentrum in under six hours.

He casts _detect magic_ as he walks into the tent. Blips in his sight abound, but most are weak. He finds two amulets similar to the ones he wears, and collects them first, before the Tomb Takers can see them. He also finds a single sending stone, which was likely a line of communication back to Ludinus. He is surprised to see that it is still working. He would’ve thought Ludinus would sever the tie when the outpost went dark.

The thing that really interests him is an ornate iron chest that has fallen from a table that broke in the middle of the tent. Strong abjuration magic emanates from it, so he knows that it is magically locked and trapped. He can tell that it has been so for a long time, much longer than the outpost has been here.

Lucien appears in the opening to the tent, “Don’t have all the fun without us,” he says.

“I am doing what you brought me for,” he says. “Looking for magical items, and identifying their specifics.”

“What’s that?” Lucien asks, pointing at the chest.

“Something old,” Bren says, “and, as per our agreement, something that is mine.”

“Well, fair enough, but I’m nosy,” Lucien says. “I don’t care if it’s mine or not, I just want to know what it is.”

Bren chuckles. “I do not know yet,” he admits, and there’s a ring of excitement in his voice. “I would have to take some time to get this open, it is trapped with strong magic.”

He begins casting _secret chest_ to stow the item away, because he knows that he won’t have time to properly look it over until after he is finished in Vergesson. Lucien takes the sending stone that Bren left behind, as well as all of the coin from the skeletons there. The failsafe had done its job, the outpost is nearly untouched.

“Are we done here yet?” Tyffial asks from outside. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“The Assembly will do that to you,” Zoran says, entering the tent. He picks through a few items that Lucien hasn’t gone through yet.

———

They make their way further along the road into Molaesmyr, onto the Tomb Takers’ task. Bren thinks that they must be pretty close to the city center now. The gentle trill of birds above was hardly noticeable until it stops abruptly as they turn the corner of a street. In the distance, Bren can see the thicket of impenetrable brambles that were mentioned in the war room.

Impenetrable really doesn’t do them justice. Lacing the street from buildings on either side, the wall of thorns reaches into the canopy, and it’s so thick that it’s almost impossible to see through. It seems to shift and sway without any wind, clusters of dried vines dropping from above to catch on lower levels, forming dense masses in some places.

“Oh,” Bren says, watching the vines move like living creatures, “that is… abnormal.”

“The Savalier Wood is like that,” Lucien says, “but it comes from here, so it’s worse, the closer you get to the center.”

“Is it alive?” Bren asks.

“Yes,” Tyffial answers simply.

Dried, purplish leaves start drifting down towards them one by one, where they have stopped to take in their surroundings, and there is the sound of restless shifting above, growing louder.

“Come on,” Lucien says. “We shouldn’t linger.”

Bren follows, staying quiet and keeping his eyes on the canopy above. It has been overtaken by the brambles as well, and they undulate there like a swarm of agitated bees. Bren watches as a mass of dried twigs and thorns twitches and fidgets, snapping nearby brambles until it breaks free and drops down.

He pushes Lucien and Cree forward suddenly, and is glad when the other three dodge backwards with him. The cursed cluster of branches shatters almost entirely on impact with the ground, but the pieces still tremble and twitch across the ground.

Another falls to their left, scattering itself as well. More start to follow suit, but others unravel to form spider-lines down to the ground, letting the others twist and turn down them to a semblance of safety. The sound that they make is almost similar to crickets, but discordant and somehow hollow. 

“Scheiße,” Bren hisses, “there must be _thousands_.”

Lucien unsheathes both of his scimitars and draws one across his chest. The blood on the metal sparks and ignites into flame, consuming the blade. He watches carefully as one of the creatures drops from directly over it, and times his swing to hit it. He cleaves it in half, and the flames disintegrate it entirely, leaving it to rain over him like a snowfall of embers and ash.

The brambles above them reel from the attack, shuddering and creating a wicked racket of cracking and popping akin to a roaring bonfire. 

“You know,” Zoran says, “we might just have to take our chances with the Clay family.”

“Say no more,” Bren says, and he looses five rays of fire from his fingertips. The first four hit their marks, landing amongst the thicket and burning a radius of three feet to cinders before starting to smolder. The brambles shudder and separate suddenly, casting sunset down onto the ground and releasing the ray into the open sky.

Three of the creatures roll down the side of a building like tumbleweeds. They coalesce at the bottom and then unfurl into some contortion of a humanoid, rushing towards them. Their thorns whip out at Lucien, with one missing and the other two slashing at his face and legs. He flinches and reels from the impact. The creatures themselves twitch and shudder, moving away, seemingly not have done as much damage as they expected.

Otis lurches forward and cleaves the bonded creature in half, leaving one of them unmoving on the ground and the other two separated. They shiver and scuffle away across the ground. More and more light starts to shine down from above, and Bren knows that the creatures must be moving away from the canopy, but he doesn’t know where they’re going if not down to the ground.

Suddenly, there’s a louder crushing sound. Brick and mortar grind as dust shifts down onto them. Bren follows the sound, seeing the brambles twisted around the top and middle of a building, clinging to each other like braids of a rope. They’re tensed and stretched out, knotted together, and they’re _pulling_.

“They’re trying to bring the building down on top of us!” Cree shouts before Bren can even open his mouth.

“Living creatures… plants are alive… Bren, can you turn this thing back on?” Lucien asks, spinning the circle of death generator like he might just throw it in the air.

“Ja, I think so, but…” he knows that it would very likely kill him if not all of them if he does.

“Trust me,” Lucien says. “On the count of three.”

Bren nods. They have a better chance with this than the monolithic structure crumbling down in their direction.

One.

Two.

Three.

———

Bren wakes, gasping, having no clue how much time has elapsed since he reactivated the generator. The lapse of time disturbs him more than the fact that Cree is helping him. “How long was I out?” he asks.

“A few hours,” Cree says, “but all we have accomplished is moving the obstacle two miles down the road.”

“It was Lucien’s idea,” Bren reminds her, and then he sits up, looking around for the tiefling.

“Two miles is two miles,” Lucien says, scratching at the dried blood on his cheeks that has run down out of his ears. “And now we don’t have to worry about the weird plant things that way.”

“Only the field of negative energy,” Cree says, “again.”

“Bren can turn that off,” Lucien says.

“Not today, he can’t,” she argues. “Unless you want him dead. Then again, perhaps that would be for the best.”

Bren looks up towards the sky, which is clear now that the brambles are gone. The sun has completely set now, and the moon is high in the sky. He knows that it is getting dangerously close to sunrise in Rexxentrum now.


	10. Residuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> extra warning for some detailed descriptions of placing the residuum in the volstruckers' arms

“Fuck,” Bren exclaims. “I have to go. I will meet you back in Shady Creek Run.”

He doesn’t wait to hear their responses before teleporting outside of the gates of Vergesson. Instead of going through them, he circles the outer fence and looks through. Beneath a lantern, he can see his two companions talking amongst themselves.

He cups his hands in front of his face to _message_ Astrid. “To your left, on the other side of the fence,” he says. He watches her receive the message and look around for a moment before jogging over to him.

“You are cutting it very close, Bren. Did they not open the gates for you?” She asks, and then her eyes start to adjust to the dim light. “Scheiße, what happened to you?”

He is covered from head to toe in mud, muck, and blood along with being generally road-worn. “There is no time to explain,” he says. “I need your help, Astrid.”

She casts _prestidigitation_ to clean him up. It’s a spell that he never learned, and he occasionally pays for that. “You owe me,” she says.

“Did I not already?” He replies with a nervous laugh. “Is Master Ikithon here yet?”

“Yes, so go around to the gates and come in,” she says. “You worry me to death, Bren.”

He makes his way around the courtyard fence quickly, through the gates, and joins his companions just as the first rays of sunlight start to crest the outline of the Sanitarium. The door to Ikithon’s tower swings open, and the three walk towards it obediently. Astrid and Eadwulf file in behind Bren as they enter and walk up the stairs, and they take a post on either side of the door at the top of the tower, where Ikithon stands, waiting.

“I believe I told you to clear your schedule, Bren,” Ikithon says. “You should have listened.”

“Yes, Master Ikithon,” he says, and swallows hard. “I only wanted to make use of every available moment.”

“No excuses,” Ikithon says, and his tone is severe. Astrid and Eadwulf both grimace behind him. “Either own your decisions, or do not make them at all.”

Bren stares straight ahead, soaking in the scolding from his mentor. “Yes, Master Ikithon.”

“Remove your coat,” Ikithon says, which confirms Bren’s theories about what he is here to do. The children are meant to see what will become of them.

Bren obeys, exposing his arms and the patterned scars in them. He folds his coat carefully, and sets it aside.

“Now, still your mind,” Ikithon says. “You will need clarity for your next task. The recruits are your responsibility today, Bren. Stop worrying about disappointing me. Do not disappoint them.”

Bren nods curtly, and Ikithon steps aside as Eadwulf opens the door to a room Bren knows well. He steels his raw nerves, fighting the urge to flinch when the door shuts behind him.

Before him, he sees a setting he is familiar with, though not from this perspective. There is a table set with a bowl, which wafts the smell of strong, purifying spirits. A wooden tray with surgical implements sits to the side of it, and a jar of hundreds of small, oblong beads of residuum glass. A stack of clean, folded clothes is set on the other side, and on top of them is a book, where he knows he will get his precise instructions.

A chair centers the room, bolted to the floor, with straps lining it. The legs, arms, and heads of his pupils will be secured during this procedure. Finally, the three children, one of whom he will torture today. They are kneeling on the floor in a curved line that he and his companions sat in not so long ago. They have all been provided sleeveless robes, and they all look at him expectantly.

He inspects everything on the table carefully, and tests the strength of the straps on the chair, its connection to the floor. He finds it all sound and as it should be. He opens the jar and dumps the beads into the bowl of alcohol along with a small, finely sharp knife, a retractor, a pair of delicate tweezers, and one of the cloths. He does all of this before turning to the new Volstruckers.

“Berthild,” he says, and she straightens. “You will be taking the lead today. Take a seat in the chair. The two of you,” he points to the others, “stand on either side.”

They all comply without question. He doesn’t strap Berthild in yet, because it won’t be necessary for the first part of this. He wrings out the wet cloth and wipes down her right arm with careful attention. Next, he opens the book to the patterns he must make. Then, he dries the knife. He takes it in his hand, willing it not to shake. He begins making tiny, but deep, incisions in a pattern that mirrors the scars on his own arms.

Berthild hisses occasionally at the sting, but keeps her composure. It is a long, grueling hour before he is done with the easiest part. He puts the knife down on the tray and takes the pair of tweezers and the retractor. One by one, he forces the incisions open so that he can place the beads of residuum glass into them.

Berthild squirms, because the beads are still coated in alcohol, and they burn. “Stay still,” he says, pausing. “The more you move, the worse this will be.”

She nods, and moves her gaze straight ahead. The expression on her face is one he sympathizes with. She is forcing her pain away, bottling her suffering deep inside. 

_The poor girl,_ he thinks, _she believes that this is the worst of it._

Another hour passes, and then another, and he is finally finished placing the residuum. The lighting has changed dramatically since he arrived, and it is now fully lit in the room. 

“Master Ermendrud,” Ulrich asks, “what are the belts for?”

“A timely question, Ulrich,” Bren says as he turns the pages of the book once more. He begins pulling the straps around Berthild. Over her forehead, her neck, across her shoulders; over her upper arm, forearm, and wrist, her waist, each of her thighs, twice on her shins, and her ankles. He leaves the arm he is working with free.

All six eyes on him are filled with fear, and Berthild is starting to whimper. “No tears,” Bren says, looking her directly in the eyes. “You will be glad of this, when you are being tortured for information in Xhorhas.”

“Ulrich, you hold her shoulder,” he says, “Gudrun, her wrist.” The two obey, taking hold of the free arm where he ordered.

Berthild nods determinedly, and she swallows. She trains her eyes on the door and tries to relax her entire body. “I am ready, Master Ermendrud.”

 _No, you aren’t,_ he thinks. “Good,” he says. “This will not be pleasant.”

He begins reading the incantation that was once read before him. Berthild starts to squirm immediately, and her companions almost lose their holds on her. They weren’t expecting this much of a struggle. She pulls against the bindings, but there is nowhere for her to go. Her jaw is tense, and she breathes through grinding teeth as tears start to streak down her face. She whimpers, sobs, and then starts screaming.

The other two look between her and their mentor, nearly overwhelmed with panic, but Bren doesn’t let his own show. He can’t. He keeps his face neutral and unaffected, sublimely reading off the arcana that twists this child to his specifications.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Four minutes.

Five minutes.

Time crawls by, and Berthild’s voice goes hoarse from her wailing until she goes lax in her restraints. She weeps pitifully, snot and tears painting her face. Her hair is dripping with sweat. “Mutter, bitte mutter,” she whimpers. “Lass es aufhören…”

He continues through her dazed pleas for a mother he knows died years ago. Finally, her eyes flutter closed and she loses consciousness, going totally limp and heavy in the grip of her companions.

Six minutes.

Seven minutes.

Eight minutes.

Nine minutes.

Ten minutes.

Bren completes the ritual, watching the green glow pulse beneath her skin and then fade. “Berthild,” he says, patting the side of her face until her eyes open again. They are red from crying, and glazed over with confusion. “We are finished with this arm.”

“No,” she whines. “No, no, no, no…” she breaks into sobs again, and he waits for her to finish before beginning to strap her right arm in and free the left. 

“Bitte, no,” she cries. “Kill me instead…”

Every action he has taken must be repeated.

———

The sun has long set when he is finished. The two who have not been marked are released first, to the rooms they have been given on the grounds. Nurses from the Sanitarium are brought in to carry a catatonic Berthild out of the room and into the hospital proper.

Bren stands idle in the room, staring at the chair. He takes the empty jar in his hand and chucks it into the wall, shattering it. He goes to his knees with a choked scream, his arms tense over his head. His breathing is ragged as he tries to calm down.

“I know it is a difficult task,” Ikithon says, stepping into the room, “but necessary.”

Bren quivers with the amount of pent up emotion he accumulated during the procedure. Finally, gasping, his sense returns to him.

“There is still a softness in you, Bren,” Ikithon continues. “We must be rid of it, for your own good. This project is as much for your benefit as it is theirs.”

“I…” he pants, “I know...”

“If you are unable to continue,” Ikithon says, and he raises his arm to the door, “there are others to take your place.”

“No,” he says immediately, his voice strained, and he meets Ikithon’s gaze determinedly. “I can do this, Master Ikithon.” 

“Good,” he says. “Get some rest, you will continue in the morning, at sunrise.”


	11. Advantage

Bren finds his way to a room set aside for him, and passes out for a few hours. When he wakes up, he composes himself and heads to Ikithon’s office. He isn’t sure if his mentor will be awake, but he hopes. He raps his knuckles lightly on the door.

“Enter,” Ikithon says after a moment.

The door creaks as Bren pushes it open, and Ikithon looks up to him, folding his hands over one another on the desk. “Bren, I did not expect to see you until the morning,” he says. “You need to rest.”

“I wanted to update you on my progress in the Savalier Wood,” Bren says, ignoring what Ikithon said entirely. “I wanted to make clear why I was unable- _unwilling_ to clear my schedule.”

Ikithon waves his hand to the chairs in front of his desk. “Go on, then,” he says.

“I was invited by the Tomb Takers to join in an excursion into Molaesmyr,” Bren starts. “They believe, likely correctly, that Vess Derogna is shortchanging them on what they bring back from the ruins. I was taken in as a third party to identify the risks and value of their hauls.”

“You are not a third party,” Ikithon says.

“Lucien believes me to be,” Bren says, “or at least believes that my goal is to undermine Vess Derogna on the behalf of someone else in the Assembly.”

“I assume you found something,” Ikithon says. “Something worth shirking your duties for.”

“What caught my attention was the mention of an old Assembly outpost in Molaesmyr,” Bren says. Ikithon shifts back in his chair, his arms crossing. Bren prickles with excitement, knowing that this must be news to his mentor. “An outdated failsafe had been activated, preventing anyone from entering and living to tell the tale.”

“Interesting,” Ikithon says. “I’ve heard of no such outpost.”

“With respect, Master Ikithon, it might be before your time in the Assembly,” Bren says. “I am almost certain it belonged to Ludunis Da’leth. He never received what was held there.”

“You’re sure of this?”

Bren smiles, and he casts _secret chest_ again. “Yes,” he says. He opens the chest and pulls the other from it, dropping it onto Ikithon’s desk and then dismissing the spell. “I did.”

“This is excellent work, Bren,” Ikithon says.

“I did not have time to inspect it closely before returning, but I am certain that the failsafe was activated to protect this,” Bren says, and he pulls the two Amulets of Proof Against Detection and Location from his pocket, “and that it was important.”

“Vess Derogna is not a fool,” Bren continues. “She knew I was in the Run, cultivating a relationship with the Tomb Takers. She knows that I would have knowledge of how to deactivate the failsafe. She decides _now_ to order them into a part of the ruins that is closed off on all sides save one, the path through the Assembly outpost?”

“So, you believe that Derogna wants this as well?”

“It is an educated guess,” Bren says. “Ludunis Da’leth and Vess Derogna are engaged in a silent war over artifacts from Molaesmyr. Why, I do not know, but Derogna currently has the advantage over him.”

“ _Had_ ,” Ikithon corrects him, and he gestures to the chest. “Now we have it.”

“Yes, but I will need an advance,” Bren says. “I made a deal with the Tomb Takers, that I would pay them at sixty percent for whatever I found there. They did not see the amulets, but Lucien knows about this chest. He will be expecting a large payout.”

“I will open this while you continue with your work here,” Ikithon says, “and I will determine its worth. Go and rest, now, Bren. You have earned it.”

———

Bren’s eyes open again well before sunrise, and he can’t get himself back to sleep. Outside, in the courtyard, he finds Astrid. She is standing somewhat near the middle of the yard, staring upwards into the starry sky. The night is cold, but clear. He approaches her, and she glances down to smile warmly at him before looking up.

“You are having trouble sleeping, too?” he asks.

She nods, “But I am not worried about the new recruits,” she says. “I am worried about you.”

“Me?” he asks, taken aback. She doesn’t reply to that, so he keeps talking. “If this is about my display before, I… I did not have enough time to prepare myself for what was about to happen. I held in my emotions until I was left with people who knew that I had them.”

She huffs a laugh. “Not that,” she says. “I was troubled too. Berthild’s screams...reminded me of my own.”

“Me, too,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

“I am worried about your work in Shady Creek Run,” she says. “I worry about what comes next for you, with these recruits. Master Ikithon thinks that you are ready…”

“You disagree,” Bren says.

“Yes,” she admits. She opens her mouth to say something more, but it just escapes her as an exhale, an expression of fog into the chilly air.

“As for my work in Shady Creek Run, do not worry,” Bren says. “I explained myself to Master Ikithon. He agreed that I made the right decision.”

That intrigues her, and pulls her attention away from the sky. “What?”

“I found something in Molaesmyr,” he says, and his body thrums with excited energy. “I am not yet sure what, but I know that Ludinus Da’leth sent people of import after it. I found two amulets like this-” he pulls his own from under his cloak, “at the site. Ikithon was not even aware of any outpost in Molaesmyr.”

“Really?” she asks, leaning into him with interest. “How has no one found this before?”

“Oh, Vess Derogna knew it was there,” Bren says. “She thought that she could lure me into dispelling the failsafe, and that the Tomb Takers would take the item from me, but her mistake was paying them less than I was willing to. She has not built the repertoire with Lucien that I have-”

Astrid’s shoulder slacken, and the smile falls to concern. “That is the other thing that worries me, Bren.”

“What?” he asks.

“Your… repertoire with the leader of the Tomb Takers,” she says.

His brow quirks in confusion. “It is what we were both trained to do, Astrid,” he says. “It is my duty.”

“Something in you is changing,” she says, shaking her head. She folds her arms, rubbing the chill away, and starts walking back towards the hospital. “I don’t like it,” she calls behind her. Then, she leaves him standing in the cold, confused.

———

Bren lingers outside of the door to Berthild’s room for half an hour after speaking with Astrid. Orderlies pass by, but pay him no mind. They know who he is. Finally, he stops one of them, and has them unlock the door for him. He enters, trying not to let the door creak too much. The hinges should really be oiled in this entire building, but he isn’t sure how much good it would do. It’s very old.

Berthild is laying on her bed in a Vergesson gown, curled up into a fetal position, her dark hair matted around her face. He remembers how Astrid laid still for so long that her sweaty hair tangled until it wasn’t salvageable. She never grew it back.

Bren pulls a chair over in front of the bed and sits. Her eyes move to watch him, but she doesn’t stir. He shrugs his coat off onto the back of the chair, revealing the scars that hers now match. “The tattoos over them were an aesthetic choice,” he says. “I will not require it. That is a decision that the three of you can make amongst yourselves.”

“Out of the parlor now,” she says, echoing his earlier words to him, and she chuckles. It’s a strained, painful sound.

“Ja, and into the shit hole,” he says, smiling a bit, but then his face turns severe and stern. “One of your companions will go through today what you experienced yesterday. I will need two people to hold them still. One of my two colleagues can take that place, but… I would prefer it to be you.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Because it will show them that you are not afraid,” he says, “and then, they will be less afraid.”

“Did you have to watch?”

His gaze leaves hers, and his jaw tenses. “Yes,” he says. “I was the last one. Master Ikithon wanted me to watch them all. One and then two, my childhood friends disappeared through the door, and I did not know where they had gone.”

“When my time came,” he swallows thickly, and takes a breath, “I was alone.”

“Who held you still?” she asks. “If not your companions? Was it those who went before?”

“There were none,” he says. “Master Ikithon held me still with a spell. It was just the two of us in that room.”

“Is that why you’re his favorite?”

Bren laughs mirthlessly. “Oh, no, I doubt that,” he says. “Even now, he says I am soft.” she smiles at that. “You did well, yesterday. I want you to know that I am proud of you.”

“For screaming and then passing out?” she asks. “You asked me to be quiet.”

“A fruitless effort,” he says. “You are speaking now, less than a day later. I was drooling for a week, perhaps more. Astrid lay still for months. Eadwulf… I do not know that he remembers it at all.”

“What’s the point of all of this, Meister Ermendrud?”

“When you are one day bound and stripped of your belongings,” he says bluntly, “when you have nothing but your skin to your name - you will still be a force to be reckoned with. You will be untouchable, unbreakable.”

She nods slowly, and then sits up. “Where… where are my robes? Ulrich and Gudrun need me…”

He smiles, and pats her shoulder, and his heart swells with the pride of knowing… he has done something that Trent Ikithon could not do.


	12. A New Game

Berthild trails him through Vergesson as the sun rises. Her arms and eyes are red and raw from the procedure the day before, and she grimaces with every step, but there is a determination in her eyes that Bren feels pride for.

Ikithon stops him on his way to the tower, his mouth open to speak, but he pauses when he sees Berthild walking behind his pupil. His mouth closes, and his head cocks with surprise. “Peculiar,” he says. “I would have thought she would stay in bed longer.”

Bren sees a flash of something in Ikithon’s eyes that he didn’t think he would ever see directed at him, _envy_. Bren lifts his chin high, proudly, and Berthild imitates him. “I reminded her of her duties, Master Ikithon,” he says. “Her fellow Volstruckers depend on her, and her presence will put them at ease during the procedure.”

“Speaking from experience, Bren?” Ikithon asks.

“Master Ermendrud,” Berthild says, correcting him. Ikithon doesn’t grace her with his gaze, but his lips twitch at a sneer as he keeps his eyes locked on Bren’s.

“Yes, I would prefer to keep them together,” Bren says, “because of my own experience. It will be easier, if they can look to one another for support.”

“Carry on, _Master Ermendrud_ ,” he says, though it feels more like a threat than a signal of respect. “I would like to speak to you later.”

Bren lets Ikithon pass out of earshot before he speaks. “Do not do that again,” he says, looking at Berthild. He can’t keep the hint of a smirk off of his face.

Bren didn’t tell Berthild that it was he, himself, who needed her support the most. The other two children could’ve gone through it and coped in their own ways, just like he and his two companions had. What Bren really needed was to prove to himself that he wasn’t destroying them, that they could get up and continue their lives in some way, that it wasn’t for nothing.

None of it makes the second one easier, or the third, but he can at least refuse to lose his composure in front of _his_ pupils. Ulrich did not come back to help hold Gudrun, and he doubts he will hear from either of them for months, but his rebel student stays by his side for both. 

At their side, for Gudrun’s procedure, is Astrid. Ikithon saw fit to remind her of what must be done, as well. Bren knows that it is because she is being groomed to step into his place if he fails. He wishes he could hate her for it, but he can’t. He wishes that he could offer her his genuine support, but he can’t do that either.

Astrid steps aside when Ikithon enters as they are cleaning up. “Well,” he says, “I am impressed, Master Ermendrud.”

Bren can see Astrid mouth the last words over Ikithon’s shoulder, her eyes frantic.

“Did you expect less, Trent?” he asks, using his first name, because Berthild is no longer in the room, watching his example. The rage and anguish that had welled inside him after the procedure vanishes beneath the need to play this new game with his mentor. He knows how dangerous it is to push the boundaries this way, but he _needs_ to push them.

Ikithon chuckles, but there’s a tension behind it. Inside of his head, he hears Astrid’s voice, and glances to see her hands cupped over her mouth and panic in her eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” she asks.

“You wanted to see me after the procedure, I remember,” Bren says. “I was about to go to you, but… here you are.”

“Here I am, indeed,” Ikithon says. “I have opened the chest that you brought. Collect your companions and come to my office with them.”

“I would be glad to,” he says, punctuating the agreement with silence where he would once have placed respect.

Ikithon exits the room, his gait a bit stiffer than when he entered. Astrid is by Bren’s side at once. “Are you out of your mind?” she hisses.

“If he intends to make me his equal,” Bren says, “then he will need to be accustomed to seeing me as one.”

“Do you remember what I said in the courtyard?” she asks, and he nods. “ _This_ is what I was talking about!”

“You worry too much, Astrid,” he says, and he heads for the door. “It is a game, agreed upon. He is testing me, my ability to make decisions on my own… and he is testing my will to demand the respect I am owed.”

“You are not owed anything yet,” she says, and he shakes his head in disagreement.

“We are owed _everything_ ,” he argues. “We have served our trial, and now it is time for _his_.”

“ _Collect yourself_ ,” she says. “I will find Eadwulf. We will meet you at Master Ikithon’s office. Do not come until you are past… whatever this is…” she gestures at him vaguely and lets her hands slap to her sides.

The door to the tower slams shut, leaving him inside. Bren makes the arcane gestures for the _sending_ spell, directed at Lucien. “My work is finished, I will return soon.”

“Bring oil and platinum,” is the reply he gets, and it makes him smile.

———

There is an air of confidence about him as he makes his way towards Ikithon’s office. He felt it for the first time when he dumped platinum pieces onto the map in the Tomb Takers’ base, and he wants to cling to it for as long as it will stay with him.

Still, following Astrid’s advice, he dampens his outward expression of it as he gets to the door to Ikithon’s office, but he can’t manage to summon the obedient puppy routine. He pauses, his hand over the doorknob, when he hears talking within. He presses his ear to the door to eavesdrop.

“Master Ikithon, what will be done for the next phase of the Volstrucker training?” Astrid asks. “I… have doubts about Bren’s ability.”

“I admit, Master Ikithon,” Eadwulf says, his words drawing carefully, “it worries me as well, that he does not know what it entails.”

“If you refuse to tell him because you fear it will break him,” Astrid says, “how can you expect him to-”

Bren turns the knob and pushes the door open. “Astrid,” he says, nodding to her with a smile, “Eadwulf.”

Astrid’s open mouth closes, and she straightens her back. Eadwulf nods at him with a curt smile.

“Please,” Ikithon says, “the three of you will be seated.”

“Yes, Master Ikithon,” they all say in unison, with Bren dragging just the tiniest bit behind. They all do as they are told, taking a seat in the three chairs placed in front of Ikithon’s desk. Their places are undisputed. Bren takes the middle seat, Astrid to his right, and Eadwulf to his right, as they have always been.

None of them make any mention of what was being discussed before Bren entered.

Ikithon gestures to the chest on his desk, which is facing towards him, and is now open. “Fifty or more years ago, Ludinus Da’leth sent an expedition into the heart of the ruins of Molaesmyr in the Savalier Wood. They set up a rudimentary outpost, run by his former annex and a third party mercenary leader, who wore these,” he drops the Amulets Against Proof of Detection and Location onto the desk beside the chest.

“A short time later, communications from the outpost went dark,” Ikithon continues. “Ludinus was unable to discover what became of them, and subsequent expeditions were unable to enter the camp. He was unwilling to send in anyone from the Assembly who had the power to dispel his failsafe, and was unable to find anyone powerful enough outside of the Assembly.”

“At some point, Vess Derogna discovered this outpost,” Ikithon says, “but as she has currently not taken an annex, she also had no one to turn to, to dispel the failsafe.”

“Bren was sent into Shady Creek Run to uncover the whereabouts of the Tomb Takers, and the purpose of their connection to Vess Derogna,” Ikithon looks to Bren with a smile, “and after cultivating a relationship with the group’s leader, he was able to complete both of these tasks.”

“Vess Derogna was alerted of his presence early on, but rather than run home after being discovered,” Ikithon says, sounding almost proud, “Bren used the existing strain on her relationship with the Tomb Takers to swipe them from under her nose. He completed her task of dispelling the outpost’s defenses, but rather than the Tomb Takers bringing this to Vess Derogna, Bren secured it for _us_.”

“So, what was in it?” Eadwulf asks. “What was Ludinus seeking?”

“This,” Ikithon says, and he drops a large, ornate tome onto his desk. He removes the chest, setting it aside, so that they can see the tome better. “A vestige of divergence, locked away for centuries in Molaesmyr. The Grimoire Infinitus.”

There’s a short intake of breath from his companions, and Bren feels his mouth start to water at the thought of such an item. “It goes without saying, Bren, that you will not be telling the Tomb Takers exactly what you found,” he says. “This object is priceless, and you could never pay them enough.”

“No,” Bren says, breathless. “No I could not…”

“What will you do with it, Master Ikithon?” Astrid asks.

“Nothing, for now,” he says, but a smile curls his lips. “We may yet shunt Ludinus from his place at the top.”

“This is… more than I could ever imagine…” Bren says, and he leans up to get a closer look at it.

“Bren,” Ikithon says, calling his attention again, “I have allotted five thousand platinum for you. Pay the Tomb Takers what you see fit, and keep the rest. You are all dismissed.”

Bren can feel the jealous energy radiating off of every single person in the room with him, and a smile plays across his face because of it. The three of them stand, and he lets the other two walk before him. Just as he is closing the door, Ikithon calls out to him again.

“Bren,” Ikithon says. “You should see to your recruits, again, before you return to Shady Creek Run. I believe Berthild was asking after you.”

Bren’s newfound confidence slips from his grasp like water, and his shoulders fall. “Yes, Master Ikithon,” he says, and a cruel grin he knows well blooms across his mentor’s face… he always knows _exactly_ what to say.

———

He finds Berthild not in her own room, but in Gudrun’s. When he enters, she is holding the girl up in her lap and giving her water. She glances up at him when he shuts the door behind him, but doesn’t address him. He decides to let that slide.

“The doctors here will bring her back from the brink of her mind,” he assures her, “as they once did me. As they will do the Volstruckers you train one day.”

She looks up at him with an alarmed expression. “I will…” she casts her gaze to the floor. “I do not know if I could do what you do, Master Ermendrud.”

“That is the trouble of new things,” he says. “We do not know if we can until we do.”

He kneels in front of her, into her line of sight. “When I completed your procedure, I shattered as well,” he says. “Your screams reminded me of my companions, and it hurt me. My mentor sees my softness as a flaw, but I do not. It will never not be difficult, but this,” he points to her arms around her friend, “this is what will make you stronger.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not your ability to be unflinching in the face of pain, but to _come back from it_ ,” he says. “Break, for a thousand times, and then make yourself whole again.”

She shakes her head. “All I can hear is their screams… I could not help them… I can’t now,” she shudders, sobbing. “They’re all I have, what if they don’t come back to me?”

“Bren,” Astrid says, at the door now. He hadn’t heard her come in.

He ignores Astrid, keeping his focus on his pupil. “You will have them back, but they are not all you have,” he says. “Your mother, she is gone, but your father? You grandmother? They are with you.”

“I agree,” Astrid says behind him. “A visit with them is exactly what she needs… I will see to it.”

He turns to see a pitying smile on Astrid’s face. It twists something inside him to see it, but he can’t pinpoint exactly why, not yet.


	13. Slipping Mask

Bren collects his coin in a bag of holding provided by his mentor, but he doesn’t go to Shady Creek Run immediately. Instead, he takes it to his quarters on the Assembly campus, and dumps the entire contents of the bag onto his bed. He stares in wonder at more money than he has ever seen in his entire life. He spends most of the day counting them, one by one, and putting them back into the bag of holding.

The next day, he teleports back to the Tomb Takers’ base. Since they had to walk home, he arrives long before they do. He counts one thousand platinum out onto the map table, and then arranges it in a small pile. He considers outfitting them further, but he assumes that Cree would take offense to that, so he decides not to.

The first three nights, he feels content.

The fourth night, a strange mood takes hold of him. He is haunted by a… gap… in his mind. He went to Vergesson a second time in his training, he knows, but the reason why is fuzzy. It’s like spiderwebs in his mind, where a memory would- _should_ be, and this bothers him, because he remembers _everything else_ with such clarity. Where the reason should be, there is only nothing.

He tosses and turns in his bed at the inn, and rolls over to face the fire. Every crackle and pop makes his body jump, and he feels the empty space gnawing at his mind. His heart starts to race, and he can feel panic setting into him as he fears the _nothing_ will eat at him and eat at him until there is nothing left.

He startles awake, sitting up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. He shudders, despite the fire burning next to him, and curls into a ball on his bed. The position strains the scars on his arms, and they ache. His mind is drawn back to _screaming_ , Astrid, Eadwulf, Berthild, Ulrich, Gudrun… He is the only one to see all six.

He remembers being curled in the bed with Astrid while she lay catatonic, her eyes blank and unfocused, for four months. Sometimes, she would just scream, and then he would scream, and then, down the hall, Eadwulf would scream. A chorus would spread through the whole hospital, infecting other patients like the plague, until it seemed that the entirety of Vergesson felt their suffering.

He remembers when he came back to himself, cradling her head in his arms as Berthild had been cradling Gudrun - and he remembers a whispered promise, that this would never happen again. That, when they were older, when they made the rules… they would end this horror.

He pulls his pillow to his body and buries his face in it to scream where he will not be heard, just as none of them were heard in Vergesson.

———

When the Tomb Takers arrive back at their base, Bren is there, and he has mostly returned to himself. He can feel the cracks in his persona like a chipped ceramic mug that has been glued back together over and over and over again, but for now, he can hold himself without leaking.

When he hears them enter the gates, he positions himself in the map room so that he can see their reaction to what he has brought them.

They are all chatting when they come in, and Lucien’s pack drops to the floor when he sees it. “Holy...fuck, Bren,” he says. “How much…”

“It is a thousand platinum,” he says, “or ten thousand gold. You are welcome to count it, if you’d like.”

“What in the hells did you find?” Tyffial asks.

“It was what Vess Derogna actually sent you there for, because she knew you would take me,” he explains. “Her game backfired on her. I apologize, I assume this will damage your contract with her.”

“Fuck her,” Lucien says. “Never seen this much coin from her, even if you combined all of it.”

Bren smiles, but he can feel that it doesn’t reach his eyes. Lucien eyes him warily, already having deduced that _something_ is wrong, even if he doesn’t know what.

———

They celebrate that night, sharing two bottles of wine between them before retiring to bed for the night. Bren lingers, unsure of whether he should return to the town to sleep, or stay here. Lucien takes his hand and leads him up to his bedroom.

Lucien undoes his cloak, and drops it to the floor, and then works the buttons. At first, Bren doesn’t stop him, but he catches Lucien’s hands when he has the shirt open to his navel. “Wait,” he says. “I...I don’t…”

Lucien’s gaze meets his, and his expression is unreadable. “You? Not in the mood?” Lucien asks, teasing. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

Bren laughs half-heartedly, and then frowns. “Not tonight, I think…”

“Okay,” Lucien says, “but if you sleep here, can you still get naked? I hate the feeling of clothes when I’m trying to sleep.”

Bren nods. “Ja, okay,” he says. He finishes taking off his clothes while Lucien undresses himself.

Lucien gets into the bed first, and watches Bren flounder for a moment before he speaks. “Are you coming? You’ll get cold.”

“Ja…” Bren says quietly, and then he tucks himself into Lucien’s bed, facing him.

“Do you wanna talk about what’s bothering you?” Lucien asks.

“I, ehm…” Bren mumbles. He shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t_. “I was tasked with training the...the new recruits,” he says.

Lucien frowns like he knows exactly what Bren is talking about, like he understands. He settles down against his pillow, but his eyes are still intensely trained on Bren.

“There is something in particular,” Bren says, and he pulls his arm into view. “That I was… I think…” he sighs and shakes his head, burying it against the cloth of his pillow for a moment.

Bren takes a shuddering breath, and wipes tears he didn’t want to fall away from his eyes. “My benefactor, my mentor,” he bites his lip and swallows the lump in his throat, “he is not a good man… and I think that… he molds me into the same person he is.”

“Selfish,” Bren says, disgust in his voice. “So selfish and self-serving. I joined the Assembly, the Volstruckers-” he pauses with a flinch. He knows he has said too much, but now that he has started, he can’t seem to stop.

“I joined the Assembly because I wanted to make the empire a better place,” he says, “but I don’t think that is what he wants. I think he wants his own power, he calls it _ours_.” Bren laughs mirthlessly. “He gave me a taste of it, and I got lost… he...torments for fun…”

“What do you mean?” Lucien asks, and Bren startles at the sound of his voice.

“I, eh… he... everything is useful information, to him. Any crack in our armor is used against us, to torture,” he says. “To learn, so that we will never reveal information about the empire. He breaks us so thoroughly that we can never be broken by anyone else… and… I want to believe that is necessary.”

“But…” Lucien says, drawing it out.

“But one of the recruits- the other two… I broke them easily, they were scattered after the procedure, but she was first, and she helped with the other two,” he says. “She is like me, she wants to change the world - to fix it… and I am twisting that want into...something else, making her my puppet.”

“I even…” Bren swallows again. “I even had the thought of how I might one day use her to take his power from him…” he breathes, and it shakes him to his core to admit it. Deep inside, he knew that the thought was there, but to say it out loud…

Lucien’s hand pets his cheek. “Oh, sweetheart,” Lucien says. “You know… I left the Blood Hunters for the same shit, almost.”

“Ja?”

“I was fine with having been tortured to gain power...until they tried to make me do it to someone else,” he says, “to children. I couldn’t… maybe that makes me soft, I don’t know. They said it did.”

“I cannot leave now,” Bren says. “I have already committed those sins.”

“It’s never too late,” Lucien says. “Your mind is your own, Bren.”


	14. Dream About Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a sexy one

A pleasant dream shakes Bren awake under the cover of firelight in Lucien’s bed. The tiefling hadn’t pressed him beyond taking his clothes off before they went to sleep, but Bren’s body clearly has other plans. He rolls his hips against the thin mattress and hums, his half-hard cock twitching at the friction.

He watches Lucien’s chest slowly rise and fall for a moment before shifting closer. He brushes his fingers along his jawline to his neck, his thumb over a pulse point. “Lucien,” he says softly.

The tiefling sucks in a breath and his eyes squint before they blink open. “Nnh?” He mumbles. “What is it?”

Lucien’s voice is sleep-work and Bren bites his lip at the rush of blood it sends to his cock. “Wake up,” Bren says. 

He presses a gentle kiss to the curve of Lucien’s jaw, and licks just where it meets his neck. He feels Lucien swallow beneath his hand.

“Oh,” Lucien purrs. He turns his head to Bren and cups his chin in his hand. “Oh, do you wanna play, honey?”

Bren scoffs and rolls his eyes, but Lucien shuts him up with a deep kiss, their tongues sliding together until Bren moans. Lucien pulls him closer and his hips stutter and grind against the tiefling’s.

“Were you dreaming about me?” Lucien asks, and his fingers curl loose around Bren’s erection, stroking him lazily. 

Bren hums, relaxing deeper into the bed. “Ja, I-“ he chokes and arches as Lucien squeezes tighter, pulling him from base to tip.

Bren can feel his toes curling of their own accord as Lucien speeds his motions. He pants and whines, fisting the fabric of the pillow case over his head. “No, bitte,” he groans, “not so fast, I-“

“What is it sweetheart?” Lucien asks in that _tone_ , the one that puts butterflies in Bren’s stomach.

“Hhaa-“ Bren gasps. “I want you inside of me, schatz…”

“Oh, is that so?” Lucien asks. He slows his hand again, but keeps his hold tight, flicking his wrist at the end of every stroke. Bren throws his head back with a frustrated moan.

“I don’t know if you’ll last that long,” Lucien says. “You’re so hard already.”

Bren cants his hips into Lucien’s attentions, desperate for that break-neck speed that he had before. “I will if you stop,” he says, and Lucien lets go immediately.

Bren practically sobs at the loss of contact, his body arching into a touch that it no longer has. His painfully hard cock twitches, dripping prespend onto his lower stomach.

“Would it be too lucky of you to have brought the oil?” Lucien asks. Bren takes a few steadying breaths and casts _mage hand_ to pull the vial from his coat on the floor. Lucien chuckles and accepts if from the translucent hand.

The tiefling pours some onto his hand and spreads it across his fingers. Without taking the time to warm it at all, he slips a finger into Bren, and then a second shortly after.

“Scheiße,” Bren hisses, squirming at the sensation. “Lucien, I hate you,” he bites out, but he doesn’t mean it a second later when Lucien’s fingers curl against the sweet spot inside of him.

Bren rocks down onto his hand, his eyes fluttering closed. “What was that?” Lucien asks, clearly trying not to laugh.

Lucien’s attention is focused, rubbing and pressing his fingers in until Bren can’t keep still anymore. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard, had this deep of an ache in his body.

“Bittehhaa-“ Bren moans, “Lucien, I- schatz, please…”

“Alright, alright,” Lucien murmurs, petting the side of his face. “I guess I’ve tormented you long enough.”

Bren nods in agreement, and Lucien hums a soft laugh. The vial of oil has been in the bed with them long enough to be warm now, and Bren feels a bristle of annoyance that Lucien won’t be caught by the cold like he had been. All of that disappears when Lucien slips into him. It’s easy, as he had been well prepared for it, but Bren is reminded of how long it has been since he did this last.

Lucien lets out a shaky breath when he is fully seated, and bites his lip with a hum. “Got what you wanted, greedy?” He asks with a petulant grin.

Bren hooks his legs around Lucien’s hips and jostles him forward, making him half-fall onto his chest. Lucien moans as he is sunk even deeper. He props back up on his elbows and rolls his hips gently, setting a very leisurely pace.

Bren licks his lips, watching the tiefling’s face soften with his pleasure, and he reaches up to thread his fingers through Lucien’s hair. His eyes flutter open, and there’s a confusion when Bren doesn’t clench his fingers and pull.

Lucien’s response to this softness is to pull further away, changing their angle. He pushes Bren’s knee further up against his chest, straining the muscles, and sets a less sweet and more brutal pace.

Bren’s mouth falls open with a groan as Lucien pistons into him. “Ja, bitte-“ he breathes, “don’t stop…”

Lucien’s hand slides between them as he starts to pant, sweat dripping from his brow, and he jerks Bren off with a speed to match his hips. Bren whines and his body twists against the sheets, bowing to meet Lucien’s thrusts.

“Hh _hnn_ \- fuck, Lucien-“ Bren gasps, feeling the knot of desire burning white hot in his gut. “Lucien, I- I-“

Lucien’s other hand claps over his mouth in an instant, almost as if he _knows_ what reckless, selfish words were about to tumble off Bren’s lips in this heated moment.

Bren wraps his arms around the tiefling, drawing him closer - down, and he rakes his fingernails down his back. Lucien arches flush against him with a ragged moan, his hips stuttering in their rhythm. He buries his face into the pillow behind Bren.

Bren’s body curls, drawing closer and closer to the edge. Lucien’s hand is gone from his cock, his claws dig into Bren’s thigh instead. Any pattern Lucien had is gone, and the tiefling stops suddenly, squirming against him.

“Bren, you gotta let me go,” he pants out, “you- you have t- to-“

Bren’s only reply is to hook him there with both legs and grind into him. Lucien’s hips jerk forward and he whines. Bren brushes Lucien’s hair out of his face. “Come for me,” he whispers.

“Oh fuck off,” Lucien says, but Bren can feel his hips twitch again at his words.

“Bitte, Lucien, I want you,” he continues, breathlessly rambling. “You feel so good, I want to feel you fall apart inside of me.”

Lucien’s lips are parted, like he intended to bite out another retort, but it was erased before he could. He just nods and nestles his face back against Bren’s shoulder.

Bren is so hard that he can barely stand it, but he wants this _first_. “Slowly, now,” he says. Lucien whines against him, but he obeys. His hips grind softly into Bren, and then harder, the bones of his hips digging into Bren’s ass. Bren can feel the tiefling’s legs shaking.

“I can’t…” Lucien whimpers. “I need.. more than this…”

Bren pets down his back soothingly, brushing his fingers over the bumps on the base of his tail. Lucien keens softly, and his hips jerk roughly against Bren before he settles back into the slow pace. Bren drags his nails across the lavender skin and digs in deeper as he draws close to the tail.

“Uhhnn..” Lucien squirms again, and tucks his arms beneath Bren to wrap them around him as he sobs out a moan. “Please, I’m- I need- _oh-_ “

“Ja, schatz,” Bren turns his head to whisper against Lucien’s ear, and he feels the shiver that runs through the tiefling’s body. “Come for me, liebling.”

Lucien nods, and he speeds his thrusts just a little - just enough. He pants, and bites hard into Bren’s shoulder with a desperate moan as his body trembles. Bren squeezes his hand between them to touch himself, jerking fast. “Slowly, Lucien, with me,” he breathes, his voice starting to quiver, “with me.”

Bren finishes with a relieved moan, trying to think through the haze of his orgasm so he can focus on Lucien. The tiefling’s whole body jumps when Bren clenches around him. He makes a punched out sound of pleasure as he comes, rolling his hips against Bren’s with quick, shaky motions.

Panting, the tiefling collapses on top of him, his body limp but still shaking with aftershocks. Bren hums and shifts beneath him, stroking his back and feeling the raised marks he left there.

Lucien sighs out a moan. “Holy hells, Bren,” he says. “I… yeah…”

Bren chuckles. “Are you speechless, schatz?”

Lucien hums contentedly. “Mhnnn...worth the wait,” he mumbles. He sounds half asleep already, and it makes a smile spread unbidden across Bren’s face.


	15. For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** this is a death one ***

Lucien is spooned behind him when his eyes flutter open the next morning, the tiefling’s fingertips lightly tracing the scars on his arm. Bren brings his hand to his mouth and kisses across the knuckles before releasing him. Lucien’s hand goes slack, resting against Bren’s stomach. 

Bren is lulled back into a sleepy state of mind, drifting in and out of consciousness in a haze. Lucien is warm against his back, and the orgasm from the night before has left a pleasant ache in his loins. Lucien tap taps over the scars again, and then shifts his body so that he can whisper in Bren’s ear.

“Let’s kill them all, Bren,” Lucien says softly.

Bren’s eyes snap open and his whole body tenses as adrenaline purges the sleep from him. “What did you say?” He asks in a rush of breath.

“The Assembly,” Lucien says, confirming Bren’s worst fear. “I’ll kill them all-“

“Shut up,” Bren says, sitting suddenly. He scrubs his hands over his face. “You would make me a traitor to even listen to you.”

“For you,” Lucien finishes. “I’ll kill them all for you, for what they’ve done to you.”

Bren feels his heart break, and knows now that what he almost said to Lucien before must be true. It wouldn’t hurt like this if it wasn’t. “Stop,” Bren bites out. “Stop… stop saying things like that.”

“We don’t need them,” Lucien continues. “Bren, your mentor torments you for fun- he tortures children.”

“So do I,” Bren reminds him. He scoffs in disgust and throws the blankets off of himself, scrambling to get out of the bed and away from Lucien.

“He forced you-“

“I was given the choice to leave,” Bren says. “I chose to stay. I chose to hurt them. It is for their benefit.”

“Bren, you don’t believe that,” Lucien says. “Remember what you said last night?”

Bren’s hands won’t stop shaking long enough for him to pull his clothes on, and he throws them down with a groan. “Shut up! Forget what I said,” he spits. “Forget what I _almost_ said,” he adds after a beat.

“I was a fool,” Bren continues. “I was a stupid fool, I should have listened to Astrid. She knew I was getting to close- scheiße, I knew it too.”

“What were you going to say?” Lucien asks. He sits up in bed. “Tell me.”

“None of that _matters_ now,” Bren says.

“Please,” Lucien says. There is a deep frown on his face that Bren has to wipe tears away to see. He didn't even realize that he was crying.

Bren shakes his head, making another disgusted noise, and is finally able to pull his clothes on. He waves his hands in arcane gestures and casts _teleport_ without a goodbye.

———

Bren knows what comes next, and he pushes it from his mind as he approaches Ikithon’s tower in Rexxentrum. His feet are heavy, but he pushes them forward anyway.

He finds his mentor at the top of the tower, staring out of the window once again. “You have bad news for me, Bren,” Ikithon says when he reaches the top of the stairs.

Bren opens his mouth, but no words escape him. “I-“ he clenches his jaw as he feels the lump in his throat rise.

Ikithon turns his gaze onto Bren, his face expectant. “Tell me, Bren.”

“Lucien is a traitor, and a danger to the Assembly,” Bren says. The syllables fall from him like a well tuned instrument, against his will. He is strummed like a lyre by Trent Ikithon’s eyes alone. “His hatred extends from Vess Derogna. He would kill the entirety of the Assembly’s echelon.”

“Why?”

“Because he believes that…” he falters. “He believes that I do not belong here.”

“So, he would make an attempt on our lives,” Ikithon says. “He would risk his life, and likely lose it… for you?”

“Yes,” Bren says.

A grin spreads across his mentor’s face, and Bren feels his stomach lurch. He hasn’t felt this sickness in a long, long time. “You always were my best,” Ikithon says. “It is a shame that it requires you to get so close.”

Bren swallows thickly as his mentor continues. “It pains you,” he says, “to tell the truth. You do it anyway, because you know you must. It is your duty.”

“I-“

“It is alright, Bren,” Ikithon says, and he holds up a hand. “There is no need to lie. I can see the softness in you. For a moment, I worried that his claws were sunk so deep into you, that he might pull you from me.”

“You are a loyal servant of the empire, Bren,” he continues. “You deserve a reward, but more so, you deserve peace of mind.”

Ikithon holds out his hand. “I can help you,” he says. “I can take that pain away, if you allow it.”

Bren reaches out tentatively, lets his hand tremble in the air for a moment, and then clenches it into a fist. “No,” he says, his arm falling lax beside him. “No, I must learn this lesson.”

 _What else,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. _What other pain have you taken from me?_

“As you wish,” Ikithon says, “but it will make your next assignment a torment.”

“I know,” Bren says quietly.

“Vess Derogna has plans for an expedition to Eiselcross with the Tomb Takers, and you,” Ikithon says. “You will go, and you will behave as if nothing has changed.”

“Yes, Master Ikithon,” Bren says in a deadpan voice.

“Derogna plans to dispose of them once and for all,” Ikithon says. “You will aid her. In exchange, you will become her annex.”

Bren scoffs, and then snaps. “I give you everything, and you throw me to Derogna instead?” He shouts, his hands flying wildly in gesture. Ikithon’s smile wavers. “I came here not because Lucien _wants_ to kill you, but because he is _capable_ of killing you.”

“Is that with or without your help?” Ikithon asks, and Bren crumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. Trent’s cruel smile returns. “Becoming Vess Derogna’s annex is not a demotion, Bren.”

“I am freeing you,” Ikithon says. “To continue your work with me would destroy you, and that would be of no use to me. Your talents are better suited elsewhere.”

“Astrid is taking my place?” Bren asks, his voice completely flat and devoid of emotion as he stands straight, at attention, staring blankly ahead.

“Yes,” Ikithon says. “Her heart is colder than yours. I had hoped that training the Volstruckers would harden you, but the softness remains.”

“For your own safety,” he continues, “I must let you go.”

———

Bren sits himself in the dance hall and drinks himself half into a stupor. This is where he once had the best of times with his companions. They were young, carefree. They didn’t know what the world held. They didn’t know that Trent Ikithon was going to rip them apart so effectively that they could never be sewn back together.

Berthild approaches him, and takes the seat next to him. He tries to ignore her, but she refuses to go away.

“How is your new mentor?” he asks.

“I preferred you,” she says. “I prefer not being lied to, shaped.”

“I was molding you like clay as well,” he says. “Grooming you to help me push Ikithon out. You were willing to fight for me.”

“I still am,” she says, and he laughs mirthlessly.

“Well, I lost,” he says, “so get over it.”

“You’re still alive,” she argues.

“Fuck off,” he says. “I am no different than either her or Trent Ikithon. Believing that I was better only served to make me _worse_.”

“But-”

“We are all someone’s puppet,” he says. “Now, if you will excuse me… I have to go and kill someone I think I might be falling in love with.”

She looks taken aback by that. “What- in love with?”

“Yes,” he says. “It will be required of you someday, so never form attachments out of your circle to begin with. It will save you heartache in the long run, because you-” he stands and points directly in her face, “will never disobey them… no matter how badly you want to.”

———

Bren goes back to Shady Creek Run, but it is impossible to pretend that nothing has changed. Lucien knows that something is wrong, whether he can place it or not. He travels with them through the Crystalands Tundra towards Palebank, where they take ship to Balenpost. Bren is silent the whole way, and the rest of them don’t poke the beast they don’t recognize. Anytime Lucien comes to stand beside him, he moves away. Lucien must know his fate, but he is so cold and unafraid of death in general, so it doesn’t bother him at all. He doesn’t think it’s possible.

“Bren,” Lucien says, watching the islands of Eiselcross appear on the horizon, past the fog and ice floes. “You can change your mind.”

Bren chuckles. “I do not know what you mean,” he lies, and Lucien gives him a pointed look and sighs.

They stand in silence there, against the railing at the front of the ship. It creaks and crushes against the ice below, setting a slow pace that grinds Bren’s nerves to frays.

“I promise I won’t haunt you,” Lucien says suddenly, and then he walks away. Bren is left with his head in his hands.

———

Their arrival at Balenpost, Bren knows, marks the end of more than one journey. Vess Derogna will meet them there, and this will end. She trudges them five miles out into the fields surrounding Balenpost, and then stops, and Bren’s heart sinks into his stomach.

Lucien’s hand is on his arm, fingers curling around, claws digging in through his coat. “Fight with me,” he whispers into Bren’s ear. It is a final plea, and Bren jerks his arm out of Lucien’s grasp, and stands to his new mentor’s side. 

“You know Lucien,” Vess says. “I would’ve thought you knew better than to come back the first time.”

“It’s not my fault you tried to fuck up and couldn’t even do that right,” Lucien spits. “Fuck you, Derogna.”

“Are you sure you can do it again?” she asks, and she turns, her eyebrows quirked upwards.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

With a wave of her hand, the rest of the Tomb Takers are locked in place. Lucien is the only one she cares about. She knows that if he goes, the rest of them will fall apart. Bren can see the wild panic in all of their eyes, except for Cree, who bears only righteous indignation. She _knew_. She knew because she has that same irrational loyalty for Lucien that she saw in Bren for his mentor. She would do this for Lucien.

Bren can’t bring himself to fight, and he shuts down. He turns his body away, and lets Vess Derogna’s guards deal with Lucien. A coolness washes over him, like submerging his body into a pool of water. He feels nothing, he is nothing. He isn’t even sure he’s there until Vess spins him around.

“You were supposed to do this,” she says, and she gestures to Lucien’s lifeless corpse, “weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he says honestly. “It is what Trent intended.”

“So, why, exactly, did you stand here and do nothing?”

He meets her eyes, and he feels something like fire stir in his veins. He looks to Lucien slowly, finally, a crumpled body, bright red spilling out onto pristine snow. Cree is released now, and at his side, curled over him and weeping.

Bren’s breathing picks up pace, like he’s running and running and running, but he walks slowly over to Lucien. “I knew you were going to do this,” Cree says through gritted teeth. “I knew it, the whole time I knew.”

“I remember,” Bren says. “You said that bringing me into the Tomb Takers was a bad idea. I hope that you find comfort in telling me so.”

“Don’t mock me,” she hisses. She fumbles with her pack, pulling a diamond from it, only to have her hopes dashed by a dark green ray of energy.

“I’m sorry, I can’t allow that,” Vess Derogna says, but she isn’t sorry at all. “Save yourself the trouble, just go home.”

Cree growls and pulls Lucien’s head closer to her chest.

“Bren,” Vess Derogna says. “When you’re finished saying your goodbyes, we have work to do.”

Like glass windows breaking outwards in a house fire, Bren’s mind shatters, but this time, he doesn’t fall into himself.

The green glass in his arms lights, scorching his skin from the inside, and fire roars in his grasp. He brings it down upon Derogna and her guards, and the others beside her are incinerated on impact. She wails and falls to her knees, in shock but not dead. 

“What are you doing!?” she screams, and there is genuine fear there, but Ikithon trained him not to let that stop him.

Again, and again, he can feel the magic ripping at his own body. It tears him up from the inside out, singing through his veins, boiling his blood, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t stop until there is _nothing_ left of her. Then, he collapses onto his knees, heaving. For the first time in more than a decade, he lets himself sob.


	16. The Blooming Grove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in this house we use caduceus clay to fix the problems we just made

Caduceus hums a soft, slow tune as he strolls beneath the filtered sunlight from the canopy. Despite the curse, the Savalier Wood can provide a modest breakfast, if you know where to look. He tucks a few more mushrooms under the cloth covering his basket, and then stops. He pushes aside a low branch, and steps underneath it into small clearing on the other side. Had he not bent down, he would’ve missed the human within entirely.

He stands over him a moment, considering. This wouldn’t be the first corpse he has stumbled upon outside of Shady Creek Run, but there is no blood around this one. Instead, a strong scent of strong whisky wafts up from his body. Caduceus nudges the stranger with the bottom of his staff, and he groans, stirring to curl in on himself, but he doesn't wake up.

Caduceus lifts one of the stranger’s arms up and lets the light from above cast onto his face. “It’s time to wake up,” he says.

The redhead blinks awake and squints immediately. He covers his eyes and moans at the agony the light causes his head. He retches almost immediately, but he brings nothing up, not even spit.

Caduceus tugs his arm, trying to coax him to rise. The human isn’t weighty, but Caduceus isn’t that strong. He needs to get him on his feet before he can help him. “Come on, now,” he says.

“Lass mich allein,” the stranger grumbles out, snatching his arm from Caduceus’ grasp. Undeterred, Caduceus just grabs his other arm and tries pulling him up.

The stranger resists, defiantly limp, for a moment. Then, he lets himself be dragged to his feet, though he isn’t steady on them. “I said leave me,” he repeats in common.

“I don’t think I will,” Caduceus says. “It’s dangerous out here.” He loops an arm under the stranger’s and starts guiding him back to the Blooming Grove, where he’ll actually be able to help.

“That was the point,” the redhead mumbles. He makes a weak attempt at pushing Caduceus off of him, but sighs and gives in after a second.

It’s slow going, but eventually, Caduceus gets him sitting on a bed in the Blooming Grove, safe. 

Caduceus tries for an hour to coax a name and reason for being in the forest out of the stranger, but has to admit defeat against the alcohol coursing through him.

———

Bren lays on the unfamiliar bed, one that is far too big for him, and stares at his unlikely savior. The Clays of the Blooming Grove aren’t unknown to him, but they have never been of particular interest to the empire or the assembly, so he didn’t give them the time of day.

“Why invite me into your home, when you are alone?” Bren asks, his words slurred. “I could be dangerous, I could be a killer.”

“Are you?” Caduceus asks, seemingly not disturbed by this line of questioning.

“Yes,” he admits.

“That’s your business, not mine,” Caduceus says, looking over a few different herbs, holding them above a teapot in bunches.

“That is a foolhardy sentiment,” Bren says.

“Okay, let’s get you coherent,” Caduceus says, and he comes over to Bren with a pouch of something unknown, his hands moving in a magical gesture. 

Bren flinches away from it immediately, which gives the firbolg pause. “It won’t hurt, it’s just going to get rid of the alcohol,” he assures the other.

Bren tries to force himself to relax. He doesn’t want to be sober, but he’s pretty confident that he won’t get out of here if he doesn’t comply. The pouch of something empties as Caduceus completes the divine spell.

Bren’s ears ring, and he is immediately aware that he feels… _different_. It settles in increments. First, he is painfully and regrettably sober, and then… more… starts to trickle in. “Ma- m-“ he splutters, his hands coming to cover his ears, trying to block the ringing that is quickly turning into screaming.

It’s not that _something_ is different. _Everything_ is different. A finely polished clarity washes over his mind, pushing out dust and cobwebs he didn’t even know were there. His hands hover an inch from his ears, and he starts to tremble and shake. His breathing speeds up, and he can feel his heart starting to beat a drum of desperation against his chest.

He makes several more attempts at forming syllables, but all that leaves him are scoffs of disgust that melt into pathetic whimpers. “Wh-what did I… what.. I…”

“Well, this has never happened before,” Caduceus says, a strong tone of concern in his voice. He reaches out again to touch Bren’s shoulder, but the redhead reacts so fearfully that he retracts his hand immediately.

“Das ist nicht wahr...” he stands suddenly, stumbling over his feet, and finds his way into the courtyard of the Blooming Grove. He falls to the ground, scuffing grass stains onto his knees and elbows. He pulls himself back to his knees, but he can’t find the strength to rise again.

Caduceus finds him curled inwards, his elbows to the ground, his face in his hands. A gut wrenching sob breaks from him and turns into a hoarse wail that Caduceus has never heard before, and it shakes even his composure.

The firbolg approaches slowly, keeping a careful eye on this stranger who is having such a strong reaction to being cured of… whatever he’s been cured of.

“No, no, no, no,” Bren repeats, over and over and _over_. “This cannot be real.”

His eyes trail to the scars on his arms, beneath the linen of his shirt. Dazed, he pushes his shirt up and starts clawing at them. Caduceus decides he’s watched enough.

“Hey, hey now, don’t do that,” he catches Bren’s arm before he does any serious damage, and he can feel how violently the human is trembling, how stiff all of his muscles are.

“Tell me this is a nightmare,” Bren begs, looking at the firbolg. His voice is broken, and his eyes are shiny from the tears he has yet to let go of. “This is not real.”

“We’re here, if that’s what you mean,” Caduceus says. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Please, whatever gods there are, let me be dead,” Bren pleads, and he starts to go lax in Caduceus’ grip as reality sets in and his vision swims.

“If you were dead, I woulda buried you,” Caduceus says, “but you’re alive. Very alive. This is a lot of emotion all at once. The dead don’t feel that.”

Bren just starts whimpering “no, no, no,” again, making a mantra of it. 

———

Caduceus puts him back to bed and tucks him in with plenty of blankets. It’s more than Vergesson ever did for him. He lays on his side, curled beneath the quilts… just shaking. Uncontrollably, he trembles. Occasionally, he cries out, or laughs, but mostly, he is silent.

Time passes, and he is vaguely aware of the room becoming dark, then light, then dark again. He hasn’t moved. Caduceus has come and gone around him, puttering about his days, sleeping through his nights in a bed nearby.

On the third day that he lays still, Caduceus leans into his sight. “Do you wanna sit up?” He asks. “I won’t make you eat yet, but you need water.”

Bren swallows for what might be the first time since he was put here, and his throat is dry. He coughs, but nothing comes up, and he becomes aware of how dry and chapped his lips are. He nods slowly, but when he tries to push up, nothing happens. He manages to flop onto his back like a dying fish instead.

“Alright, come on,” Caduceus says. He sets a cup of tea down on a table nearby and hauls Bren up by both arms. He props pillows behind him and then leans him back.

Bren reaches for the cup as it’s handed to him, but he can’t grip it and it drops to the floor, breaking. He grimaces. “I’m- I’m sorry- I-“

“No,” Caduceus says, and his face is totally unbothered, his tone soft and understanding. “It’s okay.”

He fetches another cup and brings it. He tips it into Bren’s mouth himself this time. Bren drinks until the cup is dry, and the tea’s warmth is soothing to him.

“It’ll help you relax, too,” Caduceus says. “Just a little. You’ve been laying there, but I know you haven’t slept.”

Bren’s eyes waver from him to a window high on the wall, and he stares out of it for a while. So long that the light changes again. He can feel the effects of the tea, relaxing his limbs out of their tense state. It is more comfortable, but he still doesn’t sleep.

“Still didn’t sleep?” Caduceus asks when he wakes up, and Bren shakes his head. “Alright… I’ll get something stronger if you want.”

“I don’t,” Bren says. “I don’t want to dream.”

“You won’t.”

———

Caduceus is halfway through brewing whatever he plans to knock Bren out with when he starts talking again. “You wanna tell me what you did?”

“What… I- what?” Bren blinks slowly, and looks at him.

“You said you did something,” Caduceus says. “You don’t have to tell me, but… seems like you need to get it off your chest.”

Bren opens his mouth, and part of him wants to… but the Clays were known to be very close. He can’t tell Caduceus what he’s done, he’ll kick him out, and he’ll die out there like this… not that he doesn’t deserve it.

“You don’t have to worry about what it is,” Caduceus says, and he pours the tea, “or how I’ll react. I can see how it’s hurting you. Whatever it is, either it was your choice and you regret it, or it wasn’t your choice and you regret it.”

“It… uhm, it is a- a bit of… of…” he struggles to pull the words from himself. “Both?” He finishes.

Caduceus nods. “Good, that’s a start,” he says. “Don’t push yourself too hard, alright? I need to get more fluids into you. Focus on that. Focus on staying alive. Everything else can wait.”

———

The tea does its job, and he sleeps. Like Caduceus said, he doesn’t dream - not really, anyway. He isn’t sure if he is awake at those times, drifting in nothingness. He is weightless for a time, and then weighted down - but comfortingly, like the bottom of a pile of kittens.

He wakes an unknown amount of time later, with the pinkish light of twilight wafting through sheer white curtains that are drawn closed over the window. Bren blinks a few times, and then rubs his eyes. Caduceus is nowhere to be seen, which is unusual.

He finally feels like he has some sort of hold on his mind again, so he pulls at the wall between himself and the memories that Caduceus had unlocked.

His second stint in Vergesson… for twenty years, the week before that had been a hollow in his head. Now, it is filled with trauma and lies. After recovering from the first, failed procedure on his arms, he had been brought to visit his family. They celebrated, and then, Ikithon shook his hand. Things changed. His parents were traitors-

 _But they weren’t_ , he reminds himself, _they weren’t_.

He knows now, why Ikithon tortured him with a room full of flames. Even without the memory, it always tugged at something within him.

After his parents were dead, by his own hand, Ikithon could see no way to bring him back from over the brink… and so he simply removed the problem. It must have taken days - maybe _weeks_ to scrape his mind out like the innards of a gourd. Little by little, like in his nightmares, Ikithon would’ve chewed at his memory, and discarded what he deemed unnecessary.

In his rational brain, Bren knows that he is the only one of the three that this was done to, to this extent, at least. The conversation he overheard between his mentor and companions makes complete sense now. This is what Astrid meant. The next phase-

He slips from the bed, but his knees buckle under him, and he falls to the stone floor with a thud. “She can’t,” he says out loud. “She can’t make them do this…”

He whimpers, and then casts _sending_. “Astrid, you cannot do this,” he says. “You have a choice, you do not have to make them kill their families… please…” and the spell breaks free of him, into the air, to be delivered to her. She does not respond.

He looks up to see Caduceus in the doorway. His face is drawn in concern, but somehow stern, and it makes Bren hang his head in shame.

“So, that’s what you did,” he says.

“I’m sorry…” Bren mumbles. “I know how important family is to you, and I… I will leave this place, as soon as I am able to stand. I did not tell you before, because I knew I would be unwanted, and I-“

He is coaxed to his feet and back into the bed. “You’re doing all you can to stop it from happening again,” Caduceus says. “I believe in second chances, Bren.”

“What about third chances?”

“Did you do something else?” Caduceus asks.

Bren nods slowly, his brow furrowing and his lips drawing into a deep frown.

“It’s just a saying,” Caduceus says. “I believe in chances. It’s never too late to change, to be who you want to be instead of who you think you’re supposed to be.”


	17. Four Urns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** this is _the_ death one ***

After months of here and there catatonia, Bren is just starting to control himself a little. Caduceus is pleased with his improvement, and glad of the company. Bren thinks that everything might, one day, be okay again.

But his fate is unkind.

———

Bren wakes from another tea-induced haze, to the sound of Caduceus talking to someone else. Their voice is rushed, almost frantic, and then relieved. Bren blinks the sleep from his eyes and sits up. He opens them to see a familiar form. Dressed differently, but alive and well… Lucien. He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, his eyes soft.

“No,” he says, his voice quivering. He shakes his head frantically. “No, you… you are not here.”

Lucien uncrosses his arms and comes to kneel before Bren. “I am,” he says. “Remember, I said I couldn’t die.”

“You promised…” Bren sobs. “You promised you wouldn’t haunt me.”

“Hey,” Lucien says, cupping Bren’s face in his hands and forcing the redhead to look into his eyes. “I’m not haunting you, I’m _here_.”

“You are not real,” Bren says, and he closes his eyes tightly.

Lucien pets Bren’s face, and cards his fingers through the red hair. “Look at me,” he says. “Bren I’m here, I’m real…”

Lucien hasn’t cried in a long, long time, but he can feel tears welling up and spilling over now. “Bren, I thought you’d killed yourself…” he says. “I’ve been looking for you this whole time. I couldn’t find you.”

“I understand if you want to punish me for what I’ve done,” Bren says, “I deserve it.”

“No, come on,” Lucien says. “Honey, I’m not here to punish you.”

Bren chokes out a sob, and Lucien pulls Bren’s head to his shoulder, shushing him gently. “I’m gonna kill that piece of shit for this,” he says.

“Ikithon did not do this to you, Lucien,” Bren says quietly. “He would never have known if I had not told him.”

“I don’t care,” Lucien says. “I don’t. I can fix all of this, I just… I need you to come back to yourself.” He pulls Bren’s head away so that he can look at him, meet his eyes. “I need you to come back to _me_.”

“Bitte… leave me to die in peace, Lucien,” Bren whimpers.

Lucien presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment. “Come on now, there’s time for that later…” he says. “We have an archmage to kill.”

Bren’s head hangs in silent shame, and Lucien can’t tell if he still believes he is hallucinating or not. He stands, because he has to get out of here - get fresh air. He wipes his tears away angrily as he walks out into the courtyard, where he finds Caduceus. The firbolg is sitting cross-legged in the grass, nursing a steaming cup of tea.

“You’ll get him back,” Caduceus says as Lucien passes him.

“How can you be so sure?” Lucien says, and he laughs mirthlessly, madly.

“Because you love him,” Caduceus says.

Lucien’s expression drops, and there’s something so young and insecure about him that hasn’t been there in years. Caduceus puts into words what he could never, and he says it without hesitation, without fear.

“No amount of pushing or shoving can bring someone back from this,” Caduceus says. “No one can… force someone out of their head.”

“But you can love them,” he continues, “and you can love them while they pull themselves out of it.”

———

Another week passes in silence in the Blooming Grove before Bren drags himself out of bed and joins Caduceus outside. The air is warming with spring, birdsong abounds in the grove, and everything is green and _new_.

“Good morning,” Caduceus says without turning around. He is seated somewhat in the middle of the clearing, cross-legged in the grass.

“Was...did…” Bren struggles for a moment. He wavers on unsteady legs, squinting in the sunlight. “Did a tiefling come here?”

“Yes,” Caduceus answers. “He said he’d be back, he had to collect the rest of his family.”

“The… _rest_ of his family?” Bren breathes, repeating him. Caduceus nods. “He wants to kill my mentor.”

“Is that what you want?” Caduceus asks.

Bren opens his mouth, but then closes it again. “I do not know if I can answer that. I have no idea who I am,” he admits. “I know that Trent Ikithon is… wrong. He has done terrible things. He delights in making others do terrible things.”

“It doesn’t sound like anyone would come to his funeral,” Caduceus says.

Bren almost wants to laugh at that. “Astrid will, and Eadwulf,” he says. “Maybe me…”

“It’s hard to let go of what you know,” Caduceus says, “even if all it does is hurt you.”

“Ja, it is…”

“You’ve already made the first step. You didn’t go back, you came here,” he says.

———

Everything went so wrong.

Bren doesn’t understand how things go so out of hand. Half a year ago, he was perfect. He was being groomed to do what he had always wanted. Lucien had taken his life and spun it like a top. He can’t honestly say he’s worse off for it.

He thought they would win, he really did. Lucien came back for him. Lucien made him think that anything was possible. He made him think that they could wipe Trent Ikithon from the face of the world, then ride off into the sunset like they were made of fairytales.

But Bren’s hopes are dashed by a single… dark… green… ray of energy.

He cries out, flailing for arcane movements to _stop this_ , to _save him_ , but the spell falls loosely around his fingertips. It dissipates like blood in the water, a puff of smoke that the uncountered spell whips through like air.

Lucien looks down at his hands, and a pained expression crosses his face. His eyes meet Bren’s, filled with fear and pity… and then he crumbles to ash.

“Good luck coming back from that one,” Ikithon says, a smirk on his lips. His voice is strained, because they had left their mark… but it wasn’t enough.

A wordless wail of anguish breaks free of Bren’s lips, and the rest of the Tomb Takers scatter, except for Cree. She rushes him, grabs the collar of his cloak, and shakes him violently. “This is your fault!” she screams. “This never would’ve happened without you!”

“I- I-” he stammers. He knows. He knows she’s right.

“Why didn’t you just _stay away_?” she cracks, starting to sob. “Why did you take _everything_ from me? He was _everything_!”

She throws him to the ground and flees, taking off after her companions. Unlike Bren, she is still interested in preserving her own life. Bren stays where she left him. Ikithon’s footsteps echo in the tower, and Bren flinches with each one of them.

“Well, now,” he says, looking down at his former student. “What are you going to do now, Bren?”

Bren stares at the stone floor, a hollow feeling in his chest. Again, his heart has been ripped out, and again, he has no one to blame but himself.

Ikithon’s hand curls under his chin, and he turns Bren’s face up to look at him. “I am sorry that you had to learn your lesson like this,” he says. “A place has been made for you here, if you return.”

“Why?” Bren asks, his voice hoarse from trying not to weep. “I tried to kill you, I intended to.”

“You were always my favorite, Bren,” Ikithon says. “Don’t you _remember_?”

The wisps of darkness and teeth snap at the edges of Bren’s memory, and he grips Ikithon’s wrist until his knuckles are white. “No,” Bren grits out. “You will not take this from me.”

“Then you _do_ remember,” Ikithon says, and his smile widens. “Astrid was wrong about you. Made whole, you are not a broken man. This will make you stronger.”

Bren’s mind races, but comes up empty. “I am a traitor, Master Ikithon,” he says.

“No,” Ikithon shakes his head. “You had a lesson to learn.”

“Do you remember what I said, Bren,” he continues. “I said that I was _freeing_ you. I let you go because I knew that you would return to me.”

“I have no one else…” Bren murmurs, his eyes trained on the pile of ashes on the floor. “My past is full of ash… and you are standing at the center of it.”

“I will always be there,” Ikithon says. “Take your place at my side, Bren. Together, we can build the Assembly into something _more_ than what it is.”

“I know that you always resented the wedge that I drove between you and Astrid,” he continues. “You believed you would both sit at the top one day, and that I would prevent you from working together… Bren, that is not so. We will make a new world, where we work for _one goal_ , together.”

Bren finds himself nodding, but he isn’t sure what he is feeling. Ikithon drags him to his feet, and, like he has so many times before, Bren lets the puppetmaster play.

———

The years pass, and for a while, Bren holds onto some fantasy hope that Lucien might return to him, like he did before.

But there is no body to return to, only the ashes that he keeps in a jar on his mantle. Lucien sits above an ever-roaring fire with three other urns. Lucien, Bren’s mother, Bren’s father, and Vess Derogna. She never got a chance to be his mentor, but by the use of what Bren uncovered in Molaesmyr, he rose to her position anyway.

Ikithon gets to brag that he trained the youngest archmage in history. Bren lets him, because it takes the heat off of him. It lets him do what he wants, in private.

Two others went here before him, that he knows of well. One, that he immolated in Eiselcross, and a second, who was thrown out for necromantic experiments.

Her crime?

Love.

Delilah Briarwood sought to return her lover from the dead, and when she _succeeded_ , the Assembly and Crown threw her to the wolves.

Bren can’t speak as to her character, but he knows the deep, desperate ache that she must have felt. He can feel it in his fingertips as he flips through her old journals and logs.

Like slipping into a warm bath. Carefully, gently, Bren feels himself slipping into the same madness that choked the future from his predecessor’s predecessor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this to the end. I really appreciate the support - and I want to formally apologize for this fic. I wrote this in bulk over the course of a week because I was held hostage by a muse named Bren Ermendrud.
> 
> I don't know what to say, because "i hope you liked it" doesn't really seem appropriate, but,,,, again, thank you for reading. I love you all! <3


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